25 Days of Christmas 2(21b)013
by That Kid With the Long Coat
Summary: It's December. You know what that means? It's time to enjoy a few Christmas shorts with Sherlock and John! So head on over to 221b for some holiday cheer. Or griping from Sherlock the Scrooge. Either way, Merry Christmas. If you don't celebrate, I hope you at least enjoy. Chapters posted every day until Christmas!
1. Day One

_A/N: It's a bit late, forgive me. Anyways, Merry Christmas, or any other holidays you may or may not celebrate. Either way, I hope you enjoy these Christmas shorts!_

* * *

25 Days of Christmas 2(21b)013

**Chapter 1**

_1 December, 2013, in a world where the Fall never happened and it's bound to be a happy Christmas this year._

"Morning Sherlock," John greeted as soon as Sherlock entered the kitchen, lazily brushing his teeth. Sherlock grunted a response around the foam, walked over to the sink, and spit. After rinsing his mouth, the detective glanced over at John momentarily, just to see what he was doing. There was a pause before he frowned. Pointedly, he focused his full attention on his friend.  
"Why are you so chipper?" he asked suspiciously. John only grinned and shook his head, spooning some sugar into a mug of tea, which he pushed in Sherlock's direction. Sherlock regarded it steadily, then took a grateful swig.

"No reason," John replied after taking a sip out of his own mug (he had opted for coffee). "It's just the first of December."  
Sherlock suddenly groaned, "Oh _God_," and John chuckled.  
"Where's your Christmas spirit, Mr Grinch?" he asked.  
"I haven't got any."  
"And why not?"  
"Well," Sherlock said, raising his mug to his lips, "it could be my shoes are too tight. Or it could be that my head isn't screwed on just right. But _I _think that the most likely reason of all may be that my heart is two sizes too small." And with that he retreated to his bedroom, mug in hand, to get dressed.  
"I can't believe you didn't delete that," John marveled to the closed door.  
"_Shut it!_"  
John laughed.


	2. Day Two

_A/N: Day two. Only four more until I'm caught up._

* * *

25 Days of Christmas

**Chapter 2**

_2 December, 2013_

"No," Sherlock grumbled when John walked up to the table, hands in his coat pockets.  
"What?" John asked innocently.  
"I'm not going."  
"_Sherlock_."  
"**John**."  
"We're _going_ to see lights."  
"_Why?_" Sherlock demanded.  
"Because." John smiled dangerously. "They're on the way to get a tree."  
"Are you still on about a tree?" groaned Sherlock. John simply stood there. When Sherlock showed no signs of moving, John crossed his arms. He was treading on thin ice. With a sigh and a roll of his eyes, Sherlock consented. "_Fine_. But I _will not_ like it."  
"You don't have to," John said to his friend's back as he walked to his room to change.

"Oh wow," John said, eyes wide. It was dusky. They had left about an hour after John had finished his shift in the A&E, and Sherlock had to admit it wasn't _horrible_. The lights themselves he couldn't care less about, but the childish wonder that graced John's face brought a smile to his own. "Aren't they beautiful?" John suddenly asked, and Sherlock's face scrunched up. So long, smile.  
"No."  
John frowned at him. Sherlock's lip twitched up.  
"They aren't awful," he consented. John smiled up at him and returned his gaze to the lights.

Back at the flat, John admired the box that held their tree. He saw the embodiment of the Christmas spirit. Sherlock saw endless hours of pointless work ahead of them.  
"We can wait until tomorrow to put it up," John yawned.  
"Oh, why not do it now?" Sherlock asked sarcastically. "I know there's nothing I'd rather do after _three hours_ of meandering about all of London looking for it."  
John raised a brow. "Three hours compared to the countless ones I've spent with you on cases, you think about that Mr Scrooge."

"You like going on cases and you know it," Sherlock mumbled to empty air after John had trudged upstairs for bed. He glared at the box in the corner of the flat and snorted.


	3. Day Three

25 Days of Christmas

**Chapter 3**

_3 December, 2013_

"Alright Sherlock," John called ahead of him as he trudged up the seventeen steps to the flat. Sherlock cringed in anticipation. "Tree time," John said, hanging up his coat. "You've been recruited."  
"And if I refuse?"  
"No cases until New Years then."  
A scoff. "I'm a grown adult. You can't stop me from taking on cases."  
"Watch me," John threatened with something of a growl in his voice. Sherlock noticed with annoyance that John's hands were on his hips. He sighed.

"How the hell does this even work?" Sherlock groaned from a pile of fake tree limbs.  
"They're colour coded," John said, walking out of the kitchen with two mugs in his hands, both coffee this time. Sherlock took his haughtily and nearly burnt his fingers. He proceeded to scald his tongue. "Yeah, it's hot, genius." Sherlock's eyes flashed. "That's why you grab it by the handle and wait a bit." After setting his own mug on the coffee table (Sherlock had abandoned his in disgust on the floor), John sat down cross-legged next to his friend and started sorting branches. The shorter ones he handed to Sherlock. The detective suddenly realised that the tree was a good deal taller than John and cringed internally. That meant he would be required to help with _all _aspects of the tree, from putting it together, to decorating it, to taking it all apart again.  
He groaned.  
"Help me sort, this will go faster," John said in response.  
Surprisingly, Sherlock did.

At midnight, they gave up the tree. Sherlock had experiments, and John needed some sleep. They had managed to sort the majority of the branches, which were now matched and in piles, but there was still a good deal to go through. Of course, if Sherlock hadn't complained the whole time, it would have gone faster. But, on the other hand, John would have thought something was wrong if he hadn't. Plus, it wasn't entirely Sherlock's fault. John was the one who had instigated a sword fight with one of the longer branches. That had taken a large chunk out of their evening.

"Night Sherlock," John yawned from the stairs.  
"Night," Sherlock replied distractedly from the table.


	4. Day Four

25 Days of Christmas

**Chapter 4**

_4 December, 2013_

They started up again after John was home and showered. Sherlock didn't bother protesting, he simply sat on the floor in his spot from yesterday and waited. John's hair was still damp when he sat down. "Shall we get started?"  
"No."  
And they did.

Fifteen minutes later, John felt a poke in his side. He looked over to see Sherlock, with his head in one hand and a fake branch in the other.  
"Bored?" he asked.  
"Bored," Sherlock confirmed.  
John went back to work.

"_Joooooooooohn_," Sherlock groaned, falling forward to rest his head on the doctor's shoulder. After a moment, he dropped all of his weight onto his friend with a huff. John's shoulder sagged slightly, and he looked over to see a mess of dark curls.  
"Playing dead isn't going to get you out of this," he chuckled. When Sherlock's body became even more limp, he grinned. "Get off me," he teased, shaking his shoulder a bit.  
"Ugh," Sherlock said, falling off of John's shoulder and onto the floor in front of him. He looked up at the doctor with turbulent blue-green eyes. John smiled.  
"You're hindering my sorting."  
Sherlock nodded.  
"You don't care, do you?"  
Sherlock shook his head and closed his eyes. John swept his curls out of his face and massaged his scalp lightly. Sherlock let out a small noise of pleasure.  
"You're just like a cat," John said with a smirk, then pushed at him. "C'mon, up."  
After a moment, the detective sat up and ran a hand through his curls absently. John made a note to pet him more often. No, that wasn't weird.

"Finally!" Sherlock exclaimed when the last branch was sorted and placed in its proper pile.  
John smirked. "Now to put it together."  
Sherlock's face fell instantly.  
Checking his watch, John realised it was past nine in the evening. He stretched, and Sherlock watched him with a keen eye. "I guess it can wait one more day. Christmas isn't for a while." Sherlock sighed in relief. "I'll make tea. Turn on the telly."  
Instantly, Sherlock was on his feet. He could put up with crap Christmas programmes, as long as it got him out of working on this _damn_ tree.


	5. Day Five

_A/N: One more, and I'm all caught up. Yay!_

* * *

25 Days of Christmas

**Chapter 5**

_5 December, 2013_

The next morning - at approximately seven a.m. - was quiet. A little too quiet. Sherlock raised his eyes from his microscope and looked around, ears pricked. He realised with a jolt that John wasn't up yet. Sherlock humoured the option of just leaving him be momentarily before his conscience kicked in. Funny, he wasn't aware he had one.

Sherlock tried his best to avoid the creaky spots in the floor on the way up to John's room, and succeeded for the most part. Once outside John's door, he hesitated for a moment, listening. John had a rule about knocking before entering (after a few... unfortunate events). Sherlock rapped once and softly. He thought he heard his name mumbled through the door, and went in. It was dark, but he could make out the shape of a very asleep John snuggled under his blankets. Again, the thought of just letting John sleep crossed Sherlock's mind, but he painfully remembered the last and only time he had done so. The memory made half of his face cringe.

After recovering from the memory, he crept up to the beside. John looked so peaceful. Sherlock hated to wake him, he really did.

"John." No response. "_John_," he said, a little more insistently.  
"_Mmmmph_."  
"Sleeping Beauty," Sherlock prompted, utilising the nickname that John used for him whenever he happened to nod off on the couch, or at his work table.  
This time he got a more intelligible response. "What?"  
"You're late. It's nearly seven."  
There was a pause.  
"Shit."

John had jumped out of bed, getting ready in a whirlwind of limbs and expletives. After seeing him off, Sherlock collapsed into his chair, knees pressed to his chest. It was a little chilly, he thought. He glanced around the room, looking for something to do. Unfortunately, there were no cases to be solved, murderers to apprehend, or Andersons to set straight. For a while Sherlock sat there, bored out of his mind. Then an unruly pile of branches caught his eye. He could always start putting the damned thing together. It was taking up half of the sitting room anyways. And what would Mrs Hudson think if she saw the (bigger) mess their flat was in?

"Sherlock!" John called, seemingly in a better mood than he had been that morning. "You ready to finish the-? Oh."  
Sherlock lifted his head from his position on the couch indolently. John was standing in the doorway, eyes focused on the tree. His head tilted to the right.  
"You started already?"  
Sherlock lowered his head back onto the arm of the couch. "Only the ones I knew you couldn't reach. I saved the top, though."  
John verified this when he spied the top of the tree resting in his chair. "I can see that." Curiously he walked over, observing the meticulously placed branches. "Good job," he said after a few minutes of silence. Sherlock grunted in acknowledgement before he returned to his mind palace. John let him, opting to finish the rest of the tree.

Some time later, Sherlock was being gently shaken to consciousness. He opened his eyes to see John's smiling face. "You can get right back to whatever you were doing. All I ask is that you put the top on now."  
Sherlock grumbled. John stood over him patiently, moving only when Sherlock swung his legs to step on and over the coffee table. John handed him the top, which Sherlock dutifully put on and adjusted accordingly.  
"Perfect," John said, and Sherlock had to admit it did look rather nice, if not a bit lacking.  
"Decorations?" he questioned. He instantly regretted it.  
"Tomorrow," John answered with a grin. Sherlock knew that particular grin. It was a grin that said they were doing something John would enjoy, but Sherlock wouldn't necessarily like. In fact, Sherlock would probably hate it. And Sherlock was going to do it anyways.  
How could he say no to those imploring eyes, or that beseeching smile?


	6. Day Six

_A/N: Caught up finally, yes! Now I just need to stay that way. Keep tuning in!_

* * *

25 Days of Christmas

**Chapter 6**

_6 December, 2013_

"It needs to snow," John huffed after about fifteen minutes of wandering the city streets of London. "It's not Christmas without snow."  
Sherlock refrained from rolling his eyes. "The lights aren't enough any more?" he asked, voice somewhat contemptuous.  
John shrugged. "They're not as nice. I love it when they sparkle against the snow, and the bite in the air, and the white, and the rosy cheeks. The snow makes everything seem cosier, because it's so cold, and the lights from inside the flats and the shops seem so much warmer..."  
Sherlock simply nodded, trying to see things from John's point of view. It was a little hard, however, seeing as it was nearly 6 degrees.  
"Let's go in here," John suddenly said, pulling Sherlock by his coatsleeve into a nearby shop. Sherlock allowed it.

"That was unnecessary," Sherlock remarked, dropping his load of bags in the middle of the flat. "And excessive," he added, appreciating the 'thunk' they made.  
"Be careful!" John scolded, setting his bags down more carefully. "You'll break them!"  
"_Bu-_" tried Sherlock.  
"You were the one who insisted on glass," John reminded him.  
The detective closed his mouth. He had in fact insisted on glass ornaments. But who wouldn't? The plastic ones were just so... not _nice._ And if he was going to be forced into having a tree in his flat, he was at least going to have a _nice _looking tree in his flat.  
When John pulled out a length of tinsel, however, he started to have second thoughts.

"Looking good so far," John remarked. The two were admiring the white lights on the tree from a few feet away. "I still wish you would have let me get coloured ones, though."  
Sherlock grinned. "There was no way in hell." John smiled back.  
They dug back into their bags of decorations.

"Tinsel or ornaments first?" John asked.  
"Ornaments."  
A pause.  
Sherlock looked up. "What?"  
John was staring at a box in concentration. "We have to string them ourselves."  
"Oh."  
"Yeah." John frowned.  
Another pause.  
"Shall we finish tomorrow?" Sherlock asked.  
"Please."


	7. Day Seven

_A/N: Yeah, John got up at ten, and I got up at nearly one p.m. Lovely._

* * *

25 Days of Christmas

**Chapter 7**

_7 December, 2013_

_Thank God for weekends,_ John thought. He had slept in until ten, and he felt a little bad for doing so, but at the same time it had felt _so good._ Of course, Sherlock had been up all night (John swore the man never slept), and was sprawled across his chair when John came downstairs. Sherlock watched as John rubbed his eyes and managed a "good morning" through his yawn.  
"Morning," Sherlock replied.  
To his surprise, John found a steaming mug sitting on the coffee table, as if it was waiting for him. He shot a quizzical glance at Sherlock, who shrugged.  
"I heard you get up," he said.  
John accepted that. He _was_ a bit suspicious, however. Sherlock never made coffee. Sherlock never made him anything. The last time he had, Sherlock had put potentially drugged sugar in it. So no one could blame him for gingerly picking up the mug and sniffing it cautiously. It smelled like coffee. He sloshed the contents slightly. It looked like coffee. It was even black like how he liked it.  
"I assure you, it's not poison."  
John jumped and looked up. "Oh, no, um... You just don't... usually make coffee..."  
Sherlock shrugged again. "I was already making myself a cuppa. I knew you'd like some coffee, you always do, so I simply found it easier to make you some."  
John nodded slowly. Sherlock watched him closely, expression slightly offended.  
"Really, it _is_ safe to drink," he insisted.  
After a small hesitation, John turned his attention back to the mug in his hand. He took a breath and drank.

Oh, _God_, that was good.

John made a contented noise in the back of his throat and took a hearty swig. Where the hell had Sherlock gotten this? This couldn't have been the cheap shit John usually bought. Did Sherlock have a secret stash of top-of-the-line groceries that he kept tucked away in some secret shelf, hidden amongst jars of eyeballs and bags of severed thumbs?

John's speculations were interrupted by a forced cough. Sherlock was staring at him.  
"Good?" he asked, pretending like it really didn't matter.  
John nodded and smiled. "Fantastic."

After John had read the paper, Sherlock cleared his throat again.  
"Yes?" John asked, brow raised.  
"Want to finish the tree?" Sherlock inquired, nodding towards the bags of decorations still lying about the flat.  
John was taken aback momentarily. "_You're_ asking _me_ about the tree?" he asked, incredulous.  
"Mrs Hudson came by earlier. She wasn't very pleased by the mess," Sherlock explained.  
John raised his brow further. Somehow he didn't believe that.  
"Besides," Sherlock added, "there's no room for my messes anymore."  
"Ah," John said with a nod of approval. He fully believed that one.

"Are we done yet?" Sherlock complained a while later. The two were back sitting crosslegged on the floor, stringing ornaments.  
A huff that sounded more like a chuckle escaped John's lips. "You were the one who suggested we finish."  
"Don't remind me."  
"Oh I will," John grinned. "Every time I get the chance."  
Sherlock groaned.

"No, don't put it there! They're all near the bottom!"  
"I can't reach any higher!"  
"Well how is that _my _problem?"  
"Get over here and _help_!"  
"_I'm _untangling more lights!"  
"_I _can do that, and _you _can put the ornaments higher up!"  
Sherlock huffed, eyes narrowed. He untangled himself from the accursed _coloured _lights that John had borrowed from Mrs Hudson, and took the ornaments out of John's hands. John tried to glare back at him, but his pokerface was ruined by the right side of his lips twitching upwards slightly. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Looking good Sherlock," John said from the nearly untangled lights. Sherlock grunted in response.  
_Not bad, _he thought to himself. _Not bad._  
"Now I can tell everybody that you did most of the decorating," John teased.  
Sherlock was nearly okay with that, until the sudden realisation that _people were going to be in his flat _hit him like a brick. He groaned for the fifty-first time since they had started, going by John's calculations, and proceeded to busy himself with more ornaments.  
John shot him a look, but opted to resume his own work.

"Looks like we're done," John said. They both stood before the tree, admiring the lights and the ornaments and the tinsel. It was beautiful. Even Sherlock was impressed. For the moment. The moment passed as soon as John said, "Now for the rest of the flat."  
They would get into that during the rest of the weekend.


	8. Day Eight

_A/N: I've never been to Harrods, so I'm not sure of the setup, but I've been looking at them online (so I at least know what they have?). Hope it's enough. Also, Jesus Christ. Harrods is surprisingly similar to our Macy's. But worse. And by worse I mean posh._

* * *

25 Days of Christmas

**Chapter 8**

_8 December, 2013_

Mycroft sighed heavily and harshly rubbed his face. He _hated_ working with people who thought they were important. At the moment, he was on hold with three of the type, each worse than the last, and he was not happy about it. He had pressing matters to attend to, matters he doubted these... _plebians _would even understand, nor comprehend the importance of them. Anthea, who sensed his mounting stress and building migraine, had brought him a mysterious brown liquid, leaving it without a word within reach on his desk. For ten minutes he stared at it, not sure if it was safe to drink, one never _quite_ knew with Anthea. When he felt the backs of his eyes begin to ache, he only wished that whatever it was was strong.

After a sip or two, he felt a little better, and decided to embark on his favourite past time. Hacking into London's CCTV. Though, at this point in his career it wasn't necessarily hacking, merely a slight abuse of his power.  
After some flicking, something interesting caught his eye. The left side of his mouth turned up in amusement.

* * *

"It's warmer than it was yesterday," John remarked with a frown. Sherlock wasn't paying attention. A sudden buzz had alerted him to an incoming text and he quickly pulled his mobile from his pocket, hoping it was Lestrade with a case. He would gladly run away now at even a _hint _of a murder.

_What are you doing going into Harrods?_  
_MH_

Damn. Not Lestrade, much worse. He pocketed the device and glowered at the first camera he could spot.

_You're so cute when you're angry._  
_MH_

Sherlock sneered and turned his back. John turned his head suddenly to look at his friend, frowning quizzically.  
"Who was that?"  
Sherlock shook his head. "No one important," he said casually, forcing his face into its former apathetic expression.  
John tilted his head, but said nothing more.

* * *

When Sherlock glared at his mobile for the fifth time that evening in the span of fifteen minutes, John had to say something.

"Who the _hell _is texting you?" he asked, coming to a halt in front of a rather expensive-looking display.  
Sherlock pretended not to hear, looking around them pointedly. "What are we doing here? Isn't Harrods a bit expensive for us?"  
A shrug. "I like to look. Who's texting you." Not a question this time.  
"No one."  
"Mycroft?"  
A menacing smile crossed Sherlock's face. "Exactly, no one."  
John scoffed. "C'mon, let's look around," he suggested, taking Sherlock's sleeve for the second time in a relatively short span of days. Sherlock complied.

Not so long after, John was humming Christmas carols and looking through assorted jumpers. "Oh, this one isn't bad," he said to himself. Sherlock, hearing the sudden remark, looked up from an expensive-looking cashmere scarf. A glance at the price tag confirmed his suspicion. £165.00. Turning his attention back to his friend, he noticed - with a slight amount of horror - a Christmas jumper in his hands. It was white, and blue, and patterned all over with stripes and snowflakes. After a minute, he got over it. It wasn't as ugly as some other jumpers John owned. He wandered over to where John was, abandoning the scarf.  
"It's better than that awful one you have at home," he commented over John's shoulder. His friend jumped.  
"I quite like that jumper," he protested. "It's my Christmas jumper."  
"It's hideous." Sherlock smiled. "At least that one's decent."  
John assented and looked at the tag. "_Gant, Fair Isle Knitted Jumper..._" he mumbled to himself. "Jesus, £149? Nope." He promptly put it back.  
With Sherlock and John both reluctant to look at anything else for fear of spending all of their money on jumpers and scarves, they headed towards the exit. They were doing well, until they found the sweets.

"'Super Strawberries and Cream'," John said longingly. When he didn't see a dark figure lingering just behind him, he turned. Sherlock was staring at a display of candy canes, hands in his pockets. John went to his side. "We can get some for the tree while we're here," he said, grabbing a couple of boxes.  
They moved on.  
Or, rather, they tried.

In another room, they found cologne, and the two of them weren't even sure of how they had gotten there. Nonetheless, John was assaulted by curious scents, and he just had to sniff a few. One bottle smelled strangely familiar.  
"'Eau de Nuit'," he read. With a frown, he sniffed the air around Sherlock. The detective shot him a quizzical look.  
"What are you doing?" he asked, though he didn't seem to mind the invasion of his personal space. John leaned in a little further, inhaled, then gestured to the bottle.  
"So _this _is what you smell like!"  
Sherlock shrugged. "Mycroft hooked me on it."  
On they went.

They were almost to the tills when Sherlock suddenly stopped. The light had glinted off of something, catching his eye and forcing him to a halt. Curious, John followed, peering around Sherlock's shoulder (he was too short to look over it).  
In a display case, in a rather exquisite box, was a fountain pen. A very pretty fountain pen, according to the look in Sherlock's eyes. It_ was _beautiful, with shiny black resin and gold accents. When John looked closer, he saw that the gold was actually... Arabic? John had no doubt that somehow his friend could read it.  
"It has verses from the Qu'run..." Sherlock murmured absently, confirming John's assumption. He seemed entranced.  
"It's very nice," John commented. Sherlock nodded in reply.  
"'Visconti Limited Edition Mecca Fountain Pen'," he read softly. When he got to the price, his expression fell a little. "Twenty-five hundred pounds."  
John's eyes widened. "That costs pretty penny." His eyes wandered back to Sherlock, who seemed at a loss. He looked like every child who had found what they wanted most in the world, only to have it ripped out of their reach.  
Sherlock tried not to sigh.  
"Maybe someone will surprise you," John said.  
Sherlock shrugged, back to his usual self, though a hint of disappointment lingered in his eyes. After a pause, John tugged on his coatsleeve.  
"C'mon. Let's_ actually_ get out of here this time."  
As usual, Sherlock followed without hesitation. He learned that he liked John's hand on his coat.  
No, that wasn't weird.


	9. Day Nine

_A/N: Try to stay tuned. From here on, a plot thickens! (Wait, there was a plot to thicken? A plot was created then. Yeah...)_

* * *

25 Days of Christmas

**Chapter 9**

_9 December, 2013_

John awoke the next morning to a peculiar warmth hanging about his face. When he opened his eyes, he was greeted by two bright grey orbs floating no more than two inches from his nose. They blinked once, acknowledging the fact that he was awake, but otherwise remained attentive and motionless. John would have jumped, but recognition flickered somewhere in the back of his brain. He simply blinked back. Now that the almost-shock was over, he realised how half-asleep he still was.

"You've been sleeping in a lot recently," Sherlock said casually, momentarily revealing slivers of white teeth. For a second, John was reminded of the Cheshire cat.  
John blinked again, then reached up to rub his eye. As soon as he moved, Sherlock jumped up from his perch on the edge of John's bed and walked to the window. John followed the figure of his friend with his eye(s). "What time is it?" he yawned, his hand sliding from his eye to rub the side of his face.  
"Half six," Sherlock replied in that low baritone of his, peeking through a slight crack in the curtains that he had made. "The time you _should _be getting up."  
John raised both brows and stretched. "Well, I'm up."  
Sherlock turned and tilted his head. He shot John a puzzled frown. John could see the gears turning in that funny head of his. He gave him a minute.  
"Ah," Sherlock suddenly said, chin raising and eyes widening in revelation. In the blink of an eye, he was gone. John chuckled.

Fifteen minutes later, John was ready to leave. He popped into the sitting room and grabbed his jacket. "Bye Sherlock," he called as he pulled it on, listening for the jingle in his pocket (he and Sherlock had a standing agreement: Sherlock supplied money for his cab fare to and from work, and John covered the rest).  
"Laters!" Sherlock called from some unseen location.

During his shift at Bart's, all John could think about was Sherlock's expression last night at Harrods. He had never seen Sherlock look that way before - for any reason. He simply wasn't one to pine over physical possessions. There must have been something special about that pen...

When John got home, Sherlock was curled up on the couch, head lolling off of the side. John tried to follow his gaze, but he seemed to be staring at nothing. His face was lax, yet his eyes seemed... doleful.  
"Y'okay?" he asked, slipping off his coat and shoes. Sherlock looked up suddenly, as if snapping out of a trance.  
"Of course." Then he frowned. "Why?"  
"No reason," John said. "Want a cuppa?"  
"Please."

Later that evening, Sherlock was curled up in his chair, John's laptop resting on his knees. The whining screech the fan was making was starting to grate on John's nerves. Sherlock had broken John's laptop on more than one occasion by letting it overheat. Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes widened.  
"Oh God," he said, mouth turning up in a manic grin. If John hadn't been so confused, he would have noticed the endearing little crinkles around his friend's eyes.  
"What," John asked, about to shove himself to his feet. Sherlock frantically waved him away.  
"Nothing, nothing," he insisted, trying to compose himself. But every time his eyes happened to land on the computer screen, he laughed. By the time John was on his feet and behind Sherlock's chair to see just what was so funny, nothing was there.  
Sherlock looked up at him innocently. He cleared his throat. "It's nothing, really."  
John scrunitised him closely. His face was back to normal, though a hint of amusement hid in his eyes. John sighed. "Fine," he huffed, ruffling Sherlock's hair fondly. Sherlock ever-so-slightly leaned into the touch. Bastard, it was impossible to be cross with him. At least not on days like these. Days like these reminded John that Sherlock wasn't actually as emotionless and cold-hearted as he would like others to believe. Not that he needed reminding. It was just nice to have proof to look back on every once in a while.


	10. Day Ten

_A/N: Midnight in the US (eastern) = Tuesday = 5:00 a.m. in London = POSTING TIME.  
I use the word "tube" a lot in this one. Mainly because typing "the Underground" constantly is tiring. Also "tube" is a fun word. Yeah... Also, prepare for a(n) (slight) OOC Sher?_

* * *

25 Days of Christmas

**Chapter 10**

_10 December, 2013_

"Willing to go out again?" John asked the following evening.  
"No," Sherlock said, though his response was muffled through the British flag pillow that had recently been thrown at him.  
"C'mon," John prompted, making his way over to the sofa where Sherlock was currently lounging. "Up," he said, tapping Sherlock's thigh lightly. Sherlock rolled over, burying his face into the back of the cushions. That gave John no choice.

"_Oi! Stop it!_" Sherlock shouted, trying not to laugh. John ignored him, trailing his finger lightly along the sensitive parts of Sherlock's feet. He then attacked the backs of his knees. At this, Sherlock actively wiggled and kicked. "Oi! Oi! _Stop!_"  
"Or what?" John asked, chuckling.  
"Or I'll kick you in your bloody face!" Sherlock exclaimed, landing a soft kick on John's chest.  
"You'll have to do better than that," John chuckled, going in for the ribs. The response was spontaneous.  
"Nonononono, _NO!_" yelled Sherlock, trying to pry John's hands off of him.  
"You gonna go out with me?" John asked, not quite paying attention to his word choice. At first Sherlock started to shake his head, jaw clamped tight, though his eyes were close to watering from laughing so hard. He stopped when John's fingers started moving towards his armpits. "Well?" John asked mischievously.  
"Oi!" Sherlock shouted again. When John didn't stop, and his squirming proved ineffective, the words, "Mercy, _mercy!_" escaped his lips. "Oi, alright I'll go!" John smirked and stopped his tickling, though his hands were slow to put any sort of distance between Sherlock's chest and themselves.  
"Didn't you tell someone once that you don't beg for mercy?" he teased, cheeky grin plastered all over his face.  
Sherlock scoffed.  
There was a brief pause. "I didn't know you were ticklish," John admitted aloud.  
"Neither did I," panted Sherlock, trying to catch his breath. John smiled, smacked his hands lightly against Sherlock's chest twice, and stood.  
"C'mon," he prompted once more.  
Sherlock didn't need to be told twice.

* * *

"What the hell have you been doing while I've been at work?" John asked incredulously after twenty minutes of roaming up and down Baker Street. Literally no cabbies had looked twice at them before moving on. Even Sherlock had trouble getting one's attention.  
Sherlock shrugged. "Probably Mycroft's way of saying 'Happy Holidays'," he grumbled, glaring at the nearest CCTV camera he could spot. It turned away from him.  
John sighed. "Regardless. We're obviously not getting a cab."  
Sherlock sensed where this was headed. "We could walk?" he said hopefully. He really hoped John couldn't see the discomfort in his eyes.  
John shook his head, telling Sherlock that he couldn't. Sherlock was simultaneously relieved and disappointed. "All the shops close in a few hours. We'd never make it..."  
Sherlock waited in anticipation.  
"I suppose we could take the tube..."  
Sherlock cringed noticeably. His only saving grace was that John wasn't looking at him at that particular moment.

"Why do we have to go _tonight _then?" Sherlock asked nearly three blocks later, trailing behind his friend.  
"Because if we wait much longer, there won't be anything left because of the pre-Christmas rush," John said a matter-of-factually, in a very Sherlock-like manner.  
Sherlock sighed. "But the _tube_," he stressed.  
"What is it about you and the tube?" John asked, sensing something in Sherlock's voice this time.  
Sherlock remained silent.

On the tube, Sherlock was tense. He could feel his hackles raising and his eyes kept flickering back and forth. John, who was currently keeping an eye out for their stop, didn't notice at the time. Bodies kept shoving into him, and Sherlock didn't like that. He pressed himself further into John's side, feeling the familiar warmth support him. It helped a little. Very. Little. John didn't even seem bothered by it. Then again, why should he be?

At the second stop, he heard a sickly "sorry" behind him. Sherlock looked, saw a rather small woman, and pressed himself as close as he could get against his friend so she could pass. As she did, she turned her head to sneeze, but she couldn't quite raise her arm in time. Sherlock caught the brunt of it and quickly wiped his face. When he could see properly, the woman was out of sight. His teeth clenched, as did all the muscles in his body, but they slowly relaxed when he felt a warm hand against his back.  
"_Bless you!_" he called irritably. He had a sneaking suspicion that he was going to catch some deadly disease now. With his luck, she probably had H1N1, or SARS, or _something_.  
A thumb began to trace small circles near his spine soothingly.


	11. Day Eleven

_A/N: *lightning flashes* *maniacal laughter*- Wait, not yet. That's next chapter *clears throat* Carry on._

* * *

25 Days of Christmas

**Chapter 11**

_11 December, 2013_

The next morning John had gotten up early to the sound of silence. It was only while he was drinking a cup of coffee in front of the kitchen sink that he noticed a note conveniently attached to the coffee cannister. It seemed to have been ripped from another sheet of paper. In the top and right corners, there were half-letters and musings in the same hand as the actual note, only in black ink instead of blue. The writing was legible, but slanted a little too far to the right, and the usually tight mix of cursive and neat print seemed... loose. It had to have been written some hours ago, far before dawn. Sherlock usually got his second wind sometime around five a.m.

_Went out, be back[...] at some point_  
_SH_

_Signs his notes just like his texts, _John mused. A small smirk quirked his lips as he re-read everything. There was a noticeable pause where Sherlock had obviously thought about his word choice. In his mind's eye, John could just picture Sherlock standing there for a good minute, trying to calculate the exact duration of whatever it was he was doing. John smirked. Of course, despite his mild amusement, John was also slightly concerned. Sherlock had never left him a note before; usually he came and went as his leisure, shrugging off John's bombardment of questions and worry when he finally slipped through the door at some ungodly hour.  
He didn't have long to ponder this new development however. He needed to leave. Three minutes ago.

* * *

Later that evening, and still no sign of Sherlock, John began to worry. Sure, the note Sherlock had left him had left the duration of his absence rather ambiguous, but that gave John all the more reason to worry. He pulled out his mobile, staring at the 'create message' screen. He was about to type (using the ol' hunt 'n' peck), when Sherlock stumbled through the door. He looked exhausted, yet satisfyed. A smile slowly spread across his face as he tried to catch whatever breath he had lost - he looked like he had run across half of London. And he very well might have.  
"Y'okay?" John asked, no small amount of concern in his voice.  
Sherlock nodded vigorously, leaning against the doorway. "Never better," he huffed. "Solved a kidnapping in..." he checked his watch, "just over thirteen hours."  
John simply stared at him. He knew very well he would be given the full report later (his friend was quite the show-off, and that was what show-offs did, of course). At the moment, his doctor senses were tingling. His eyes narrowed.

Sherlock was at least three shades paler than normal, and his cheeks were a brighter red than what the (_mild_) cold or any exertion could have stained them. The circles under his eyes seemed darker, and there was something about the way he held himself that screamed "I'm getting ill". John walked with purpose over to his friend.

"Hands," he commanded. Sherlock frowned quizzically, but presented his hands to the doctor. John pulled off his gloves and felt his fingers, phalanx by phalanx. Cold. Hands, cold. Next, John undid the scarf around his friend's throat and slipped his hands under Sherlock's collar, feeling around his shoulders and clavicle. Warm, maybe a little hot. Normal after a run. Alarms started going off in John's head when his right hand trailed up Sherlock's neck, while his left came to rest on the detective's forehead. _Hot._ Burning, in fact. Sherlock was completely still under his touch, breathing deep and slow. Controlled. John frowned and withdrew his hands in order to cross his arms over his chest. "You're getting ill."  
A scoff. "I don't _get _ill."  
"There's a first time for everything." John pointed towards Sherlock's room with his head. "Bed. Now."  
Sherlock narrowed his eyes as if he was about to protest, but whatever he was about to say was interrupted by a sudden coughing fit. John raised a brow pointedly and held out his arms. Obediently, Sherlock deposited his coat and scarf into John's waiting hands, then proceeded to trudge to his room, coughing into the crook of his elbow.

When Sherlock disappeared around the corner, John allowed himself a sigh. Hands now empty (and Sherlock's things hung in their proper place), the doctor ran his fingers through his hair. He only hoped whatever it was wasn't serious.

* * *

_themoreyouknow_

_phalanx (plural, phalanges): the bones that make up your fingers_


	12. Day Twelve

_A/N: Alright guys, I'm spending the weekend at my friend's house, and she has shit internet. That being so, I'm going to type everything up tonight and post Friday, Saturday, and Sunday's chapters when I get home Sunday evening. Have a nice weekend! Thanks bunches for sticking with me this far!_

* * *

25 Days of Christmas

**Chapter 12**

_12 December, 2013_

"You're still pretty warm," John murmured the next morning, hands on either side of Sherlock's face.  
Sherlock grimaced. "That's because you won't let me out from under these blankets," he snapped.  
John rolled his eyes. "Who's the doctor here?"  
"More like _mother_."  
"_Ha ha._" For the fifth time, John pressed the back of his hand to Sherlock's forehead.  
"Just _go_," Sherlock insisted, gesturing towards the door with his chin. "I'll be fine. I _am _fine," he corrected. John didn't quite believe him. "Really. I can't stand you hanging over me anyways."  
John stood there for a long moment, considering his options. Finally he sighed. "_Fine._" He ruffled Sherlock's hair briefly and stood. He was about to go through the door when he stopped, poking his head around the door frame. "If I catch you out of bed when I get home, you don't want to know what I'll do to you."  
"I thought you were a doctor John. Doctors don't intentionally hurt their patients."  
"Yeah, but I was also a soldier, I killed people."  
"Bad days?"  
John huffed a laugh. "Bad days." And he disappeared. Sherlock was just beginning to connive ways to finish one of his experiments when he heard John call to him from the sitting room.

"Ring me if you need me!"  
"Why would I need you?"  
"No reason at all," John murmured to himself as he trotted down the stairs.

* * *

When John got home, he expected Sherlock to be out and about, or at least sitting defiantly on the couch, but his friend was nowhere to be seen. For some reason, that worried him.  
"Sherlock?" he called, walking through the flat. He got no answer. Quietly, he peeked into Sherlock's room, only to find a mound of blankets. He nearly panicked, but, upon looking closer, he saw the pile was moving. At least Sherlock was breathing.

After a bit of careful searching and the rearranging of blankets, John finally found Sherlock's face. He was sound asleep (a rare sight). Other than a slightly furrowed brow, he looked rather peaceful. John nearly smiled before he saw how clammy Sherlock's skin looked. He went to feel his forehead again, and found it burning hot. "_Shit_," he mumbled under his breath, until he realised how cold his hands were. John thought for a minute. They didn't have a thermometer - they didn't need one. _But... _He was suddenly reminded of his mother. When he and Harry were younger, their mum couldn't tell if they had fevers with her hands. She was a hard-working woman, and her hands were covered with thickened skin and callouses to show for it. It also hadn't helped that her hands were always extremely warm. That being so, in order to get an accurate reading she would gently press her lips to their foreheads. With all of the extra nerve endings, the lips are basically the most sensitive part of the body, and therefore it was very effective.

John chewed at the inside of his cheek, weighing his options. People would definitely talk, but his friend was sick, and wasn't that more worrisome? Even so, what people were there to see? With a sigh (and a slightly paranoid glance around the room and at Sherlock's face), John placed his lips lightly on Sherlock's forehead. "_Hm_," he murmured. Okay, so Sherlock wasn't as warm as he had previously thought. Though he _was_ still rather hot. When John leaned back to take another look at his friend's face, he was surprised to see bright eyes staring at him.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock mumbled, voice clogged with sleep. He sounded a little stuffy and hoarse as well.  
John nearly jumped, but he caught himself. "Checking your temperature. My hands are cold," he explained, smoothing the curls out of his friend's eyes.  
Sherlock leaned into the touch. "I know. They feel good," he said, grabbing one of John's hands by the wrist. With a sigh, he pressed it to his cheek. John smiled.  
"_You really must be ill_," he said softly. Sherlock didn't say anything. He was already starting to drift off again, though his grip was still tight around John's wrist.

* * *

_Random note: Lately I've always been getting stuck at around 788 words. It's just weird._


	13. Day Thirteen

_A/N: Alright, so I caved and finished this one early so I could post before bed. It's midnight here, so shhhh, it works. Little short, though._

* * *

25 Days of Christmas

**Chapter 13**

_13 December, 2013_

"_John?_" a voice called urgently.  
John jerked awake, hand briefly gripping the arm of his chair (he had fallen asleep there sometime earlier that night). He didn't even bother to rub his bleary eyes before he jumped up. It took him maybe two seconds to pop into Sherlock's room. "You alright?"  
Sherlock was gazing up at him, eyes wide. "I can't breathe properly," he said. It sounded like his throat was clogged (with far more than sleep), though it was more hoarse than anything. Like it was sore. John immediately went into doctor mode. He didn't even bother using his hands, instead he went straight to pressing his lips to Sherlock's burning forehead. Sherlock sat there quietly while John pressed to fingers to the inside of his wrist, taking his pulse. He did have qualms, however, when John tried to listen to his breathing.

"I said deep breaths," John said three minutes later, after retrieving his stethoscope (ah, the conveniences of living with a doctor).  
"It _hurts_," Sherlock complained, after which he coughed for several seconds.  
"I know. But I need you to do this for me."  
Sherlock begrudgingly complied.

After John made sure that it wasn't anything life-threatening (at least not at the moment), he put Sherlock back to bed. "Try to get some more sleep," he had whispered after re-taking Sherlock's temperature, pushing dark curls off of his pale forehead. Not a tick after he had shut the door behind himself, someone's mobile went off. "Oh for fuck's sake," he groaned quietly to the ceiling.

"_Where's Sherlock?_" a tinny voice John recognised as Lestrade's asked.  
"Sick and in bed," John replied, rubbing his face. He refrained from yawning.  
"_What?_"  
"Sick. And. In. Bed."  
"_Yeah, I caught that. But Sherlock doesn't get _sick_."_  
"Well, there's a first time for everything."  
"_Okay..._" There was a pause. "_How bad?_" Lestrade asked, voice both desperate and genuinely concerned.  
"Pretty bad, no cases."  
Another pause. "_You sure?_"  
"Very. Call Mycroft or something, I'm sure he can help you."  
"_Uh..._"  
"Look, maybe if you don't have any idea in the next couple days. _Maybe_. But he's not going anywhere for at least a week."  
"_Really? A week?_"  
"Depending, yes."  
"_...Alright... well I hope he feels better._"  
John let out a world-weary sigh. "Me too, Greg. Good luck."  
"_Thanks mate._"  
There was a click, and he was gone. John set Sherlock's phone down on the table with a 'tap'. Glancing at the clock on the screen, he saw that it was four a.m. Great. On the spot, he decided not to go into work that day.

At about one p.m. a very dishevelled looking Sherlock trudged into the sitting room, wrapped up in a heavy blanket. He found John sitting on the right hand side of the sofa, absorbed in his blog. The doctor looked up when he heard a cough.  
"You should be in bed," was the first thing he said.  
Sherlock grimaced. "You're out here," he said quietly.  
John shot him a surprised look. "Yeah, I am."  
"You're also in my spot."  
John looked to his left to see a good expanse of cushions there. "There's plenty of room," he said, undeterred by the fact that Sherlock wasn't feeling the greatest.  
Sherlock simply sighed and curled up on the far left of the couch. John watched him closely for the rest of the afternoon.


	14. Day Fourteen

_A/N: OKay, so I said I was going to post Sunday evening. However, last night my friends and I made a last minute decision to go see 'The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug' at 7:50 p.m. and it was THE BEST DECISION EVER. Great movie. I got home extremely late, however, since the theatre we went to is about forty-five minutes away from my house, one way. But here's this finally. More to come._

* * *

25 Days of Christmas

**Chapter 14**

_14 December, 2013_

"Sherlock. You're looking... dishevelled."  
Sherlock's head snapped up, focusing on his brother. Mycroft stood in the doorway, arms crossed and umbrella in hand. One brow was arched, and John recognised that look in his eyes. It was the same look Sherlock made when he was deducing. For a split second, the blue of Mycroft's irides dimmed with something that seemed like worry.  
"Dishevelled doesn't quite do it, I don't think," John said from his place at the table, looking up from his keyboard at the older Holmes. But when his eyes trailed over to Sherlock, he started to rethink his comment. Dishevelled actually covered it quite well.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock suddenly snapped, sounding a trifle hoarse.  
Mycroft's brow lowered slightly. "Gregory Lestrade has been texting me incessantly." There was a pause.  
"Okay..." John said with a frown.  
"I came to figure out why."  
"Well have you read any of them?"  
Mycroft made a face. "I've been busy."  
Sherlock rolled his eyes and John scoffed. "That might have helped you out a bit."  
"Figured you were smarter," Sherlock offered. John and Mycroft exchanged looks.  
'_He's a bit ill_," John mouthed while Sherlock wasn't paying attention. Mycroft nodded slowly, frown growing obvious across his normally controlled face.  
"Figured you were more competent. Your people have to come to _me_ with their problems now?"  
"Lestrade has a case and John won't let me take it on," Sherlock huffed, turning his nose in the air in a very Mycroft-like manner.  
"And why not?" Mycroft asked, even though he could quite obviously tell why.  
"John says I'm 'ill'," the younger Holmes huffed, raising his hands just enough to make the air quotes around 'ill'. They promptly fell into his lap afterwards. "You can't have come all this way just for that. Why are you really here?"  
"I'm here because of what you did at the Diogenes Club last week."

There was a moment of silence while Sherlock thought. He had done a lot of things in the past week and his mind felt foggy. "Ah," he said finally with a smile. "I'll bet that was a nice surprise."  
Mycroft frowned out of genuine annoyance this time. "It was not, actually, though you certainly seem to think so."  
"I do."  
John groaned into his hand, running it through his greying hair (he remembered a time before he had met Sherlock when it _hadn't _been). "What did you do?"  
"All in good time, John," Sherlock croaked. "I simply caused a fiasco so I could pilfer something dear to him."  
John tilted his head curiously, turning his head to Mycroft. "And what would that be?"  
Mycroft sighed. "He took my cello." For an instant his voice rose slightly, almost whining. John's face scrunched a bit.

"...I didn't know you played..." the doctor remarked, though after he thought about it, it made sense.  
"I haven't in a long time," Mycroft admitted, suddenly sounding tired.  
"A little too long," Sherlock murmured to himself of the sofa, not realising the other two could hear him. Mycroft hummed a little in agreement. John felt a pang in his chest, though he wasn't quite sure of the cause.

Mycroft stood in the doorway maybe ten minutes more, arguing with his brother over the whereabouts of his cello. A few witty remarks were made. Mycroft was careful to give his brother ample time to think of responses to them, though they weren't quite as well thought out as usual. Nor were they as scathing. John followed him down the stairs as he left. They were both mutually silent until Mycroft reached out for the doorknob.

"Thanks for that," he said.  
Mycroft paused. "For what?"  
"Just... that. Whatever it was."  
Mycroft nodded in acknowledgement. "You should take him to a doctor."  
"I am a doctor."  
"I mean another doctor."  
John felt a hot, red feeling surge through him. "What's wrong with me?"  
The elder Holmes regarded him steadily. "I know you have no idea what he has."  
"Even if I don't, what makes you think someone else will?"  
Mycroft opened his mouth, shut it again.  
"Mycroft, I appreciate the concern, I do, but it's under control. He's actually a lot better. Mainly because he's sleeping roughly eighteen hours a day," he added under his breath.  
"Really?" There was surprise in Mycroft's voice.  
"I know."  
With a nod, Mycroft opened the door and walked out. John was just shutting it when Mycroft turned back, regarding the doctor steadily through the crack in the wood. There was an awkward pause, but John understood the meaning behind it. After a moment, Mycroft lowered his hand from the door, and John closed it carefully.

"My nose itches - were you two talking about me?" Sherlock called as soon as he heard John climbing the stairs.  
"Not at all," John lied through his teeth.  
Sherlock snorted. "Then what were you doing, snogging him?" He grinned impishly once John was back in the room.  
"Ha ha." John walked over to his friend and brushed the curls from his forehead. His skin was a little flushed, cheeks glowing a rosy pink. For a moment, John just stood there, staring at the little nebulae in his friend's eyes, hand resting gently on his head. Sherlock stared back intently, and it was not at all awkward. Things were like that between the two. There was a long moment of comfortable silence before either of them moved.  
John didn't know what in the world made him say what left his mouth next. "I'd rather put my mouth on another Holmes." And with that, he placed his lips on Sherlock's forehead. He swore his friend got a little warmer after that.

* * *

_themoreyouknow_

_irides: plural of iris, also irises; the coloured part of your eye_


	15. Day Fifteen

_Random Note (RN): Just as an fyi, last chapter John was just checking Sher's temperature again. Completely innocent. (Well, for now at least.) Prepare for more cuteness._

_A/N: Okay so guys, I'm going to be honest, this week I feel... tired. Just... tired. In every sense of the word. So I'm sorry for all of the delays, I'm working on things as fast as my brain and body will allow. Cheers for reading. It really means the world to me._

* * *

25 Days of Christmas

**Day 15**

_15 December, 2013_

Sunday, Sherlock was feeling better. His fever wasn't as bad (John couldn't feel the heat radiating off of him as much at least) and he was talking a bit more due to the fact that his throat wasn't aching him so much. It sounded like he still had some fluid in his lungs to John, but it wasn't as worrisome as it had been a few nights ago.

"So..." John said at one point. For some reason the ongoing silence seemed oppressive, even though ninety-percent of the past three days had been spent in relative quiet.  
"So..." Sherlock repeated, obviously not understanding John's need for words, noise, something. He had been talking for most of the morning, and had stopped some time after breakfast. John nibbled at his bottom lip, looking around the flat.  
"Wonder what Mrs Hudson is up to," he lamely remarked. Sherlock shrugged. Really, as long as their landlady was well and good, Sherlock didn't care what she was up to. "No snow," John said next with genuine contempt. "Weather's crap."  
"Mm," Sherlock hummed, closing his eyes, fingers steepled under his chin.  
John's eyes wandered about the room a bit more before a realisation hit him. He chuckled. "Y'know, we never did get around to decorating the flat."  
Sherlock smirked a bit at that, cracking an eye. "No... no we didn't."  
The air seemed to lighten, and John was content to leave it at that. Later however, it thickened again.

"Have you seen that trailer?" he asked after a while. The two were watching telly, mildly bored out of their minds.  
"Hm?"  
"The one that was just on."  
Sherlock squinted at him, then looked back at the telly. "Yes, why?"  
"That dragon just sounded a lot like you. Only with more filters."  
Sherlock's head tilted to the side a bit as he thought back. "That one actor looked a lot like you as well..."  
John frowned. "Did he? I wasn't paying attention." At Sherlock's nod, he decided he needed to look further into this.

"Okay, so there's this man - Benedict... _Cumber... Cumb... Cucumber..._ Cabbage Patch-"  
"Cumberbatch," Sherlock read over John's shoulder."  
"-Who apparently is the voice actor for Smaug and a... necromancer in this 'Hobbit' film." John looked over his shoulder slightly to see his friend squinting at the picture on the screen. "You two could be twins."  
"Only he's ginger," Sherlock remarked. "So who's the hobbit?"  
"Ah..." John tapped at the keyboard. "Name's Martin Freeman. Hey! He's been in _Love Actually_!"  
Sherlock scrunitised this man's face as well. "Are you sure you two aren't the same person?"  
John rolled his eyes. "No Sherlock. Y'know how I go away every day to Bart's? I'm actually running off to my secret acting career with your evil twin. Or not so evil. Everyone here describes this Cumber... _Cu_... _Cum-ber-batch _character as 'sweet' and 'adorable'. Apparently he's just made of sugar and spice and everything nice."  
Sherlock made a face, and John kept scrolling.  
"What is up with this man and his middle finger?" John exclaimed when he stumbled upon a massive amount of gifs.  
It was an interesting rest of the evening.

* * *

_RN: mmm, Hobbit references_


	16. Day Sixteen

25 Days of Christmas

**Chapter 16**

_16 December, 2013_

_Finally_, John was out of the flat.

Which meant Sherlock had some time to himself. He waited for ten minutes - curled up on one end of the couch - after he had heard John close the front door, and proceeded immediately to ring Lestrade.

"_Lestrade_," he hissed into the receiver.  
_"I thought you preferred to text," _Greg greeted with a yawn.  
"This is faster."  
_"True_ _enough_,_" _he agreed. _"What do you want? You okay? You still sound ill."_  
"Fine," Sherlock snapped, stifling a cough. "I'm calling about the case."  
Lestrade hesitated. _"Does John know about this?"_  
"No," Sherlock said. He wasn't even going to try to lie. It wasn't worth it in the end, and really, he didn't care. "What's going on?"  
_"Really it seems simple," _he started with a sigh. _"But it's been giving us a lot of trouble as of late."_  
"What is it?"  
_"Maybe a four?"_  
"Murder?"  
_"Yeah."_  
"Where do you want me?"

* * *

"So there's been two so far," Lestrade started, "stabbed to death. All conveniently in CCTV blindspots."  
"So Mycroft wasn't of any help," Sherlock remarked with a grin.  
"Oh, he was a lot of help actually," Anderson said from a corner.  
"More help than you," Sally Donovan added, arms crossed.  
Sherlock sneered. "How much help?"  
"He narrowed down the suspects to two people, a weapon, and the circumstances," Lestrade answered, a mild note of admiration in his eyes.  
"Only thing missing is a motive, really. Then it should be easy to determine just who it is," Sally interjected.  
If Sherlock had rolled his eyes any harder, they would have popped out of his head. "Serial murderer?"  
"Obviously."  
"Text me when there's another one," he said flippantly and sauntered away, looking every bit like he normally did. But to himself, his limbs seemed heavy and clumsy, and it took an actual effort to hold his spine straight and his head imperiously high. He would immediately change out of his street clothes and collapse on the sofa as soon as he set foot in his flat.

...

"Did he seem a bit... off to you?" Anderson whispered to Sally as soon as the freak was out of earshot.  
"Who cares?" she said, hands in her pockets. "As long as he doesn't get anybody ill."  
"Oi!" Lestrade called across the room.


	17. Day Seventeen

_A/N: Feeling better. Basically, immediately after school, I plopped onto my bed, burrowed under my covers, and hibernated there until... an hour ago. It was great. So here's two chapters._  
_RN: This isn't really very Christmas-y anymore, now is it? Remind me to fix that._

* * *

25 Days of Christmas

**Chapter 17**

_17 December, 2013_

"Your fever's back," John said as soon as he stepped foot in the sitting room the next morning. Sherlock looked up from his chair, eyes wide and attentive. He looked normal in his white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up and his black trousers, but bright red blotches stood out on his ivory cheeks.  
"I'm fine," Sherlock said. "It's just warm in here." He averted his gaze back to John's laptop. When he looked back up, John was suddenly before him, stooped over in order to meet his eyes. Sherlock stared back steadily, never blinking. He was rewarded with a palm on his forehead.  
"No... it's more than that," John said slowly, suspiciously, and for a moment Sherlock wondered if he had been found out. The next he spend wondering why he cared.  
Sherlock didn't say anything in response, only tried to make his expression as innocent as possible. For some reason, that only made John more suspicious, but he couldn't prove anything. John didn't even know exactly what needed to be proved, only that his friend was in a worse state than he was yesterday.  
Eventually, John just sighed and lowered his hand. "Alright," he consented, and turned on his heel. Sherlock watched him make his coffee and pull on his coat, and continued to stare at the empty doorway after John had left. He felt a strange tightness in his stomach. Then a buzz in his pocket.

_There's been another one. Lonsdale Ave E6._

Sherlock felt the odd feeling melt away from the prospect of a case, though once it was gone he didn't delete the memory of it like he normally would have. Strangely, he felt he deserved it somehow, that he was required to suffer through the prickly, mildly sick sensations it gave him. When he stood to go, something in his mind told him to stop, that perhaps he shouldn't, maybe he should stay instead. John got terribly irritated about these kinds of things. Then again, was he supposed to leave a serial murderer running about London? He thought not.  
Besides, the thought of Mycroft solving this one made his hackles rise.

* * *

A good time later, he had looked over the body, exchanged some banter with Anderson, shot a few wittily stinging remarks at Donovan, and, by some stroke of luck, had spotted one of the suspects lingering in the shadows near the scene. Oh, how he _loved_ the smart ones.  
He hated to admit it, but Mycroft was right to have that man on their suspect list. _Two possible perpetrators..._ he thought idly, just staring at the man, who happened to be known only as "Mean Nick". Sherlock didn't even put forth the effort to roll his eyes when he remembered that little tidbit of information. Eventually, his scornful musing came to a stop, and he watched in amusement when Nick's eyes widened with the realisation that he had been spotted. Sherlock didn't make a move however, just followed him with his eyes as Nick slipped away. After a moment, Sherlock himself disappeared into the crowd after him.

Five minutes later, Sherlock was in a state of near bliss, running through the London streets and alleyways after a suspected murderer. It was lovely, the wind on his face, the thrill of the chase, the slap of shoes on pavement. This was almost as good as the puzzle itself. But not quite. Ahead of him, Nick was running madly. Sherlock could almost hear the heavy pants that left him, though he showed no signs of slowing down. That was all fine to Sherlock.  
Suddenly, Nick found a sudden burst of speed. As Sherlock lengthened his stride to keep up, he felt a slipping sensation around his throat. His scarf had come undone, and before he could do anything about it, it billowed away from him. He looked back after it for a moment, but didn't slow his pace.  
Sherlock finally decided enough was enough. His lungs were starting to burn, but with a couple of huffs, he closed the small distance between himself and the suspect and lept onto his back, tackling him to the ground. There was a small struggle, during which Sherlock took an elbow to his cheekbone, before he satisfactorily subdued Nick enough to pull out his mobile. He texted his location to Lestrade and waited patiently for the detective inspector to show up.

After Greg had taken Nick away, Sherlock retraced his steps to retrieve his scarf, and found that it was nowhere in sight. He searched for maybe a half hour before he stood in an empty back street, just looking about.

"_Shit_," he said.

* * *

Sherlock sighed with relief as he stood under a stream of blissfully hot water. His limbs seemed heavier than yesterday, his muscles more stone-like, from the impromptu exertion, but it had felt good to chase after something again. He managed to step out of the shower as soon as he heard John's heavy footsteps trudge up the stairs. _Long day, _he inferred, drying his hair. He completely forgot about the state of his face. He finally remembered when John visibly jumped when he caught sight of him.

"What the hell happened to you?" he asked, rushing over immediately, not even pausing to shrug off his jacket. His hand was cupping Sherlock's face too fast it seemed, thumb gliding lightly over the purple blotch forming there.  
"It's nothing," Sherlock said. He would have shrugged John off there, severed contact, but he didn't. Probably because he sensed what was coming.  
John stared at him for a long moment, searching for something. It didn't take long for him to find it. His eyes widened in realisation, withdrawing his hand as if it had been burned.  
"Sherlock you didn't," he groaned, and Sherlock couldn't meet his eyes. Instead, the consulting detective focused on the brightly lit tree across the room. It seemed cold and distant to him. He waited in anticipation for more, but more never came. John simply rubbed his face, suddenly seeming so much older, and turned on his heel, left the flat. Somehow, that was so much worse than a row.  
Sherlock stood there, trying to process the situation. He waited and waited for an arguement to come forward, one that justified his choices, for the sense of guilt to go away, as it always did. But there it stayed, like a stone in his belly and ice in his chest. Silently, he drifted towards his bedroom, lied down on his bed, though he didn't remember doing so. He didn't dare move until the next morning.

* * *

_Woah, that got really... woah. Woah._


	18. Day Eighteen

25 Days of Christmas

**Chapter 18**

_18 December, 2013_

John hadn't come back last night, and Sherlock had lied awake the entire time, feeling nothing and everything all at once. Really, the only thing he could _do _was lie there. He had no inclination to move, and only did so when his phone chimed around noon the next day. He hoped it was John. And he was sorely disappointed.

_Nick is innocent. Solid alibi. The first two he wasn't anywhere near London, and the last one he was robbing a shop during the whole thing. Keeping him for further questioning, but Mycroft doesn't really think it's him anymore._

Sherlock read the lengthy text, feeling the stone in his stomach gain a tonne. So it had all been for nothing. He set aside his mobile and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, it was well into the evening. He glanced at his phone screen to check the time, and noticed that he had twenty unread messages and six missed calls. All from John.

A surge of panic shot through him before his ears picked up tinny laughter from the sitting room. The telly was on. He hadn't left it on, had he? No, he hadn't touched the thing in days. Cautiously, he left his room and tip-toed through the kitchen. Peeking around the doorframe, he spotted John sitting on the sofa, leaning most of his weight onto his arm, which was propped on the armrest beside him. The telly was on, but John wasn't watching it - his eyes were focused on something far away.

Sherlock wasn't quite sure what motivated him to do what he did next; he only knew that he felt small and lonely, and generally unhappy, and in need of companionship. A concoction of feelings he had felt often, but rarely revealed to others. It hadn't reared its ugly head in a while, however, and he was unaccustomed to the feeling. So perhaps it made sense that he had crept over to the opposite edge of the couch, seeking clemency. He hesitated only for a moment before he slid across the cushions, conforming himself to John's side. He proceeded to rest his head in John's lap, every muscle tense, ready to flee should the need arise.  
There was a moment's pause (John hadn't even seemed to notice him until their bodies had come into contact, but surely he had now), during which Sherlock questioned every aspect of himself and just why he had bothered with this, and why did he care, why wasn't he angry at John for being angry with him - but then a warm hand rested somewhere on the skin between his shoulder and ribs. Sherlock flinched, and John let out a sad sort of breath, not quite a sigh. Sherlock nearly stood and retreated back to his room, but the sensation of fingers in his curls stopped him, held him there. It took everything in him not to make a surprised sort of noise. Sherlock still felt as if he was breaching some sort of barrier, breaking some sort of code, but John was still carding his fingers through his hair, occasionally massaging his scalp, almost lovingly. So there Sherlock stayed. Eventually, he relaxed.

"I just worry about you, you know," John whisper-said after a long silence. Sherlock responded by nuzzling further into his friend's thigh. John swept a few stray curls from Sherlock's wide eyes, leaning over a bit to view his face. Sherlock made no move to return the gaze. John sighed. "Just... I know I can't control you, keep you on a leash - you're a grown man... but..." There was a lengthy pause. Sherlock had nearly given up on hearing the rest of it. "Just, call me next time. Or wait a bit. I hate seeing you hurt." At that, John's fingers softly caressed the blemish under Sherlock's eye. It had really swelled over the hours.  
Sherlock was touched, but instead of warm and fuzzy, the feeling spreading through his chest was white-hot (almost cold) and itchy (more of a sting). He closed his eyes and swallowed, furious at himself for varying reasons. He tried to focus on drawing in calm, controlled breaths.

If John noticed, he didn't say anything.  
'Twas the season. Particularly one of mercy, it seemed tonight.

* * *

_A/N: While I did use the word "skin" Sherlock is fully clothed. I was just reading through that and thought I would clarify. Wasn't sure what I should switch it to. Making up was nice though, right? _


	19. Day Nineteen

_A/N: Hectic Christmas weekend is hectic. My sincerest apologies for the setbacks. Ugh. Also, don't be offended by anything below. Religious mentionings. So... yeah. No one hate me for any reasons. Please._

* * *

25 Days of Christmas

**Chapter 19**

_19 December, 2013_

The next morning, Sherlock woke up with his head on the sofa cushion. He felt cold and disoriented, though it wasn't the first time he had fallen asleep on the couch. He blinked and looked around him, vision blurred from sleep. His first instinct was to call out.  
"_John!_"  
"Sherlock," John called back reassuringly from the kitchen. Sherlock rubbed his eye, watched as John appeared in the doorway, leaning against the opening with a mug in hand. "What?" he asked gently.  
Sherlock just stared blankly at him. "Nothing," he said after a bit, clearing his throat. John smirked at him.

"Alright, I'm off," John said after he had finished his coffee. Sherlock was at the table, doing... _something_, completely absorbed in his work. John leaned down beside him, looking over his shoulder. Their heads brushed slightly, and Sherlock stilled, but only for a moment.  
"Alright," replied Sherlock distractedly, adjusting one of the knobs on his microscope.  
John watched him for a second. "Ring me if you need me."  
"Mm."  
Smiling, John brushed aside one of Sherlock's stray curls. "Have fun," he said, leaning in and leaving a quick peck on Sherlock's temple. Again, Sherlock paused for a fraction of a second, but thought nothing of it. "Fever's just about gone. Good." Sherlock nodded once, attention drawn to his work once more.

It really only hit him when John walked out into the crisp London air. He physically stopped and cringed, thinking back. "_Shit_," he whispered to himself, face turning all sorts of pink and red and crimson. He rubbed the back of his neck, briefly glancing skywards, and hailed a cab. Once in the backseat, he let out an airy sigh.

* * *

At about nine, Sherlock could take it no longer. John answered immediately.

"_Sherlock, what's up?_" There was a note of concern in his voice, and Sherlock ignored it.  
"I can't take it anymore."  
John felt his blood turn ice-cold. "_Can't take what?_"  
"I can't sit here idly while a guilty man walks free."  
Sherlock could have sworn the sigh that John let out was one of relief, and not impatience. After a moment, John seemed to submit. "_I... alright. Just be careful._"  
"No promises."  
"_Sherlock,_" John threatened, but his friend chuckled.  
"I'll be fine," Sherlock reassured, expression determined. And he hung up.

Glancing at the clock, he saw that it was 9:17 and quickly jumped to his feet. He needed all the time that he could get. On the way to his bedroom, he mussed his hair, making it stick up more than usual. Once it seemed ratty enough, he flung open the door to his wardrobe and rifled through everything his eyes came into contact with. After most of his clothes were tossed about the room, he found one of his older and more beaten up button-downs, worn grey jeans that seemed like they had seen both world wars, an old tan long coat that used to be his dad's, and faded trainers. A smile creeped across his lips. Before he left, he dirtied his face a bit. He didn't want to seem well-to-do where he was going.

* * *

"Wiggins," Sherlock greeted. The young man jumped a bit when he saw him, not quite recognising the consulting detective at first.  
"Mr 'olmes," he replied with a smile. "What are you doin' in these parts? You don't seem yourself."  
Sherlock allowed his cockney accent to dissipate, his usual posh timbre replacing it. "I would hope not."  
"So whaddya need, sir?"  
"I need information on a man named 'Jack'," Sherlock said, nodding for them to walk down a nearby alley. Wiggins followed down the narrow passage, their elbows brushing amiably.  
"Just 'Jack'?" Wiggins asked scornfully. "C'mon Mr 'olmes, I'll be needin' more that just '_Jack_'."  
"Oh, you'll know him when you see him. Big fellow, looks the murdering type. Blind in one eye."  
"I'll see what I can do, sir."  
Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement, and they parted. While Wiggins was on the hunt, he figured he should take a look at the other victims, and maybe revisit the most recent crime scene.

* * *

"Hello Molly."  
Molly didn't even bother to look up, though her cheeks reddened slightly. She was used to Sherlock barging in on her work. "I assume you want to see the victims," she said casually enough, though she kept her gaze averted.  
"Oh how did you know?" he asked her, wiping some of the grime from his face.  
She smiled awkwardly, glancing up at him. He had a hand in his curls and was looking at her with a winning smile. She blinked, pointed at the cold chambers with her chin. "They're in there."  
He nodded in thanks and walked over. Molly tried to get back to what she was doing, but Sherlock's presence was heavy and tangible and distracting. She sighed internally, set down her scalpel, and walked over. He didn't even seem to notice.

"Molly," he said suddenly, sometime later. Her eyes snapped up; she had been watching him intently, studying his features.  
"Hm?"  
"I think I've found a motive," he said, flipping through the files. "None of these people celebrated Christmas."  
Molly frowned, skimming through, trying to process what Sherlock was saying. "How do you know?"  
Sherlock rolled his eyes, and Molly felt her face get a little warmer. But she waited patiently for an answer. "Well, seeing as Tom here was an athiest, Brenda is Jewish, and James recently adopted Buddhism, I'd wager that none of them celebrate."  
Molly raised a brow slightly at his condescending tone. Subconsciously, Sherlock calmed down a bit.

"I wonder..." he murmured to himself a few minutes later, still brewing over the bodies and papers, when his mobile rang. "Hello?"  
"_'allo Mr 'olmes_."  
"What did you find out?"  
"_Jack isn't the culprit_."  
"How do you know?"  
There was a pause, and Sherlock could practically see Wiggins rubbing the nape of his neck. "_Well about ten minutes ago I stumbled on 'is corpse. It ain't pretty Mr 'olmes_."  
Sherlock was silent a moment. At first he was startled, then perplexed, and then giddy. Mycroft had been completely wrong then. "Did you find anything?"  
"_Not really, though you might wanna 'ave a look_."  
"Where are you?"  
"_Not far from where you found me_."  
"I'll be there shortly."

Molly stared after his retreating figure long after he had left. He hadn't even said good bye, or thank you, or anything. She sighed.

* * *

"_John!_" was the first thing John heard when he set foot out of Bart's. He turned to see a very ragged Sherlock jogging towards him. "You're just in time - let's go!"  
"What- where?" John asked, picking up his pace to catch up. "Why are you running? What were you doing at Bart's?"  
"Need the exercise," Sherlock panted, turning to jog backwards. "Oh, and I was looking into the case you still haven't officially let me take. One suspect is innocent, the other dead, so I reckon that he musn't be guilty either. Mycroft was completely wrong - isn't that _fantastic_?" he asked with a twinkle in his eye.  
John didn't have the time to answer before Sherlock turned, ran faster. Quite used to running after Sherlock to the ends of the earth, he followed with ease. For the most part (remember, good Doctor Watson has short legs).

"So where are we headed?" John asked once he felt the last of his breath leaving him. John glanced around them, catching glimpses of seedy-looking buildings and grime-covered brick walls. He frowned deeply.  
Sherlock took a sharp right. "About... here." And he came to a halt. There was a figure waiting, leaning against an overflowing trash bin. John recognised him immediately. He had invaded their flat several times, not to mention the fact that John was usually obliged to give the boy money for his trouble, courtesy of Sherlock.  
"Hello, Wiggins," he said with a nod.  
"Doctor Watson," he replied. Then his gaze rested on Sherlock. "Follow me."

"Oh," Sherlock and John said once they saw the body, lying face-first in a puddle of water and blood. They both cringed slightly, and Wiggins smiled grimly at them.  
"I told you it ain't pretty, Mr 'olmes."  
"Has anybody seen him?" Sherlock asked.  
"Not that I know of," the lad replied with a mild shrug.  
Sherlock looked around them, checking for CCTV. "Blind spot," he muttered to himself, gazing upwards.

"_He was a heathen_," a voice suddenly hissed from behind them, and all three men jumped a foot in the air. Sherlock whirled to meet the voice, and John reached for his waistband, only to find nothing there. He swore quietly to himself, feeling suddenly exposed. "_He desvered to die._"  
"Show yourself," Sherlock growled, eyes flashing. John watched curiously when his friend side-stepped in front of him, then scoffed. He was more than capable of taking care of himself.  
A cackle greeted them, and they all looked on with anticipation as a woman left the shadows. Blood splatter covered her white dress, and most of her face. Her hair was ratty, her eyes wild and crazed.  
"**_Heathens_**," she said again, this time with more venom. John and Sherlock exchanged glances, weighing their options.  
"Ma'am, who are you?" John questioned gently.  
A smile. "A child of Our Lord, answering the call of righteousness."  
Sherlock nodded slowly. "Do you have a name?"  
"Julia," the woman said dangerously, taking a step closer. Something nasty lingered just behind her back.  
All three retreated a half-step, and Sherlock held up his hands. _Why does religion always make people crazy?_ he wondered momentarily. "And why were they 'heathens'? What have they done?"  
A maniac laugh sounded from deep in Julia's throat. "Why, they just don't believe. They don't... believe... in _Our. Lord._" She inched closer, revealing a heavy iron rod from behind her. He saw Wiggins visibly wince, though he knew the boy could very well handle whatever that woman could throw at him.  
_Shite,_ Sherlock thought with mild annoyance. "Isn't one of the Commandments 'Thou shall not kill'?" he asked cheekily, watching as Julia's eyes flashed. He exchanged a glance with Wiggins, then John, and nodded once, blinked twice.

It hadn't taken long to apprehend Julia. Not with three of them against one, even if she was insane and armed with an iron rod. At the moment, Wiggins was planted on the small of her back, pinning down her arms forcefully. She was struggling and screeching, and making a general racket while John rang Lestrade. Meanwhile, Sherlock was snooping around the corpse of Jack, prodding at it with gloved fingers, observing the puddle of blood, glancing at the rod that Wiggins had kicked out of Julia's reach. Finally, he nodded in acceptance. So that was it. Case closed. Nearly. There was still the legal aspect to deal with.

"Alright, see you Greg," John said, and hung up. He walked over to Sherlock. "Lestrade's on his way," he told him, shoving his mobile back in his pocket.  
"Good. It's about time he did something."  
"Sherlock..." It seemed John said his name a lot lately.  
"John," Sherlock said back, smirking slightly.  
John shook his head, tried not to smile. "Wanna go shopping? Y'know, while we're out. I still need to get some things," he announced, then glanced at Wiggins, who was still struggling. "Well, once Greg gets here."  
For once, Sherlock didn't groan. "Love to."

* * *

Sherlock and John both collapsed onto the sofa late that night. The bags and their coats they had abandoned at the door (John hadn't noticed the missing scarf yet). The two of them sat almost on top of each other in amiable silence, just staring at nothing, when Mrs Hudson came up the stairs, a package in her hand.  
"This came earlier today, boys. You were gone, so I signed for it."  
"Oh, thanks Mrs Hudson," John said, standing and taking the package from her.  
"So where have you boys been? Not getting into trouble I hope."  
"Solving a murder, does that count?" Sherlock asked in that way only Sherlock could.  
Mrs Hudson chuckled. "Sounds like fun. Well, I'll let you two be. I'm glad you're back and all in one piece."  
John smiled and watched as she left.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, a twinkle in his eye. "It's from Harry."  
"Your sister sent you something?"  
"Seems that way," John said, tearing open the package, revealing a two wrapped gifts. One for John, the other for Sherlock. He shook the gift lightly, then tossed Sherlock his. They opened them at once, curious. A card fell out of John's. He picked it up, held it under the gift.  
"Hm." John looked up to see Sherlock gazing curiously at his. It was an advent calender, featuring Father Christmas.  
"Ha!" John finished tearing off the paper on his, revealing another advent calender, this one Lego. "I have to admit, she knows me," he murmured with a smile, and opened the card.

_By the time you get this it'll probably be well after the first. Shipping's a bitch. Merry Christmas and all that. Hope to see you Christmas Eve._

_-Harry _

"Shit," John sighed. He had completely forgotten about going to Harry's for Christmas. He glanced over at Sherlock, who _had_ been occupied with opening all of the compartments of the days that had passed on his calender, popping a few of the sweets into his mouth. Now Sherlock was staring at him curiously, eyes bright.  
"What is it?"  
John shook his head. "I forgot. I told Harry I would come over for Christmas."  
"When?" Sherlock asked blankly, expression falling.  
"I suppose I'll have to leave the twenty-third, after we have everyone over..."  
For a moment, Sherlock was horridly white, a look of distress crossing his face, but he soon recovered. "Have fun," was all he said, but his smile was tight.  
John felt a knot form in his stomach. "You could come along," he offered, but Sherlock didn't appear to have heard him. _Great. That's Sherlock's Christmas ruined, _John thought bitterly.


	20. Day Twenty

25 Days of Christmas

**Chapter 20**

_20 December, 2013_

Sherlock was still a little down the next day, but he got over it soon enough. At least for the moment. John was standing in the kitchen, waiting for him with tea and coffee. On the table was a heap of legos, scattered about. John had had a fun morning.

"I'm leaving," John told him once Sherlock walked out. Sherlock yawned, ruffling the back of his hair.  
"Alright," he replied, reaching for his mug. John smirked.  
"We're decorating the flat tonight, remember."  
"I'll try not to."  
Chuckling, John swept a few stray curls from Sherlock's forehead, a familiar action by now, and caressed the side of his face lightly. "Have fun with that," he said softly, then turned to leave.  
"Laters!" Sherlock called after him. Something in his voice almost called John back, like he had forgotten something, but he told himself he must have imagined it.  
"Bye!" he called back, heading down the stairs.

* * *

When John finally made it back home after his shift, Mycroft was just leaving. He seemed in a better mood than he usually was when he left their flat, but as soon as he noticed John his expression changed to one of mild consternation. His eyes betrayed some inner contentment.

"Hello Doctor Watson," he greeted politely. He went to walk on, but John had things to say to him.  
"Hey Mycroft. What are you doing here? Have you gotten your cello back?" John added after a moment. It had taken him a bit to remember that Sherlock had snitched it. Or that Mycroft even _played_.  
Mycroft let out a weary sigh that wasn't quite as weary as John was anticipated. "No, I haven't."  
John chuckled, but stifled it out of sympathy. "I'm sure you'll get it eventually."  
"Oh, I have no doubt that I will. Now if you'll excuse me, John-"  
"Uh, hold on a second."  
Mycroft halted mid-step. "Yes?"  
John lowered his voice a trifle. "Listen, um... there's this thing for Sherlock... for Christmas. I don't _quite_ have the funds for it..." he choked out, cheeks turning red.  
Mycroft studied him, head tilted slightly. Then he made a face, proceeded to reach into one of his pockets. "Say no more," he said, handing over a credit card.  
"I just need a small loan," John stammered.  
"Consider it my Christmas gift to you," Mycroft said with a small smile. "This is the one I send Anthea on errands with - it is safe to use."  
John frowned at the card in Mycroft's outstretched hand, weighing his options. Eventually he bit his tongue and sighed. "I will pay you back- Don't you dare tell me not to worry about it!"  
Mycroft shut his mouth, though he was still smiling. There was a pause.  
"Alright, on your way," John huffed to him.  
Mycroft shrugged, and continued down the pavement.  
"Thanks," John called after him.  
Mycroft simply waved his umbrella a bit.

Even Sherlock seemed in a good mood when John saw him. He was sitting in his chair - well, no, not sitting. He had his legs thrown over the back of it, head hanging off of the seat. His violin was nestled on his belly, nimble fingers plucking distractedly at the strings.  
"Have a good talk with your brother?" John asked with a smile.  
Sherlock grimaced half-heartedly. "Oh, we fought like no other. Mrs Hudson had to intervene," he said, but there was no malice.  
John raised a brow. Sherlock had this wistful look in his eye, like he was remembering something long gone. John just left him there for the moment.

"All your blood's probably in your head," John remarked a good while later. Sherlock hadn't moved an inch.  
"Hm?" Sherlock asked, raising his head and instantly regretting it. All the blood that had gathered suddenly came rushing back.  
John chuckled. "Told you so. Now up, time to decorate."  
Sherlock shook his head, clenched his eyes shut and opened them a few times, then hopped to his feet. Promtly, he grabbed a Santa hat from the box in the corner of the room, walked to the mantle, and placed it on the skull.  
"Done," he said cheekily, and John rolled his eyes.


	21. Day Twenty-one

_Replies to Guest Reviews! (RtGR!):_  
_**Guest** - (Chapter 14) Aw shit ('scuse my language please), I don't know why I always want to do that, but thank you for pointing it out. (I ALWAYS want to spell satisfied with a "y" *sigh*) I'm afraid I couldn't find it, but I'll be spending most of my Christmas looking for it. _  
_The next note you made was the fact that I started a sentence with "The Holmes". Yes I did intend to put "elder" there, and I have done so. Thank you! Also, I never got a partial review from you, so it's all good. Don't worry about it._  
_**Guest** - (Chapter 15) Thank you kindly, and I very much agree with you on that point._  
_**Ozcinefile** - (Chapter 15) I just noticed you there - hello! Thank you very much love!_

_A/N: Very late, yes. I procrastinate. Also, I've been working (aka, helping my grandmother with Christmas preparations). Apologies for all these sporadic delays... Hope the chapters themselves make up for it! (Though this one _is _a little short...)_

* * *

25 Days of Christmas

**Chapter 21**

_21 December, 2013_

"It's so _bright_!" Sherlock exclaimed after John was done the next morning.  
John grinned, observing the lights he had strung around the mirror over the mantle. "Good." Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but John stopped him. "Hey, you were the one who wanted to put the wreath over the bison skull instead of on the _door_- I think I deserve to put some lights someplace I want them."  
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but had to admit that the flat looked rather festive. "So is that all then?" he asked, eyes back on his computer.  
"Yeah... I think so," John replied, adjusting the bow that Sherlock had tied around the knife in his papers. John had been tempted to pull it out of the mantle for the holidays, but really this was as much Sherlock's flat as it was his, so it hadn't felt quite right. He glanced over at the skull - he hadn't had the heart to take the hat off of it either. He quite liked it actually, liked the little touches Sherlock had made to everything. It looked like _their _flat, instead of _their flat that John had forced Sherlock to help decorate_.  
"Good," Sherlock said with a nod, scrolling through e-mails.

"Do you think we should move the Christmas party to tomorrow?" John asked out of nowhere later that day.  
"Why?" asked Sherlock distractedly from the table.  
"Well, it's just that the twenty-third is a Monday, and everyone is working, and it won't be 'til late-"  
"I think that's the point John. After a hard day of work, everyone gets to start off their Christmas holiday having fun with their friends. And the functioning sociopath that happens to live where the party is at."  
"Shut up Sherlock, you're their friend too."  
Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes, but said no more.  
"Alright, yeah, I guess that's alright," John murmured to himself, mind back on the party.  
"Good," Sherlock said again firmly.


	22. Day Twenty-two

_A/N: UPDATE!23-12-13 Okay, because I'm an _idiot_ I put cookies instead of biscuits... *heavy sigh* Fixed it though. New chapter soon._

* * *

25 Days of Christmas

**Chapter 22**

_22 December, 2013_

Sherlock had assumed that after yesterday, everything had been taken care of. Mrs Hudson was preparing most of the food for that night, and everyone else was bringing their own dish. They had taken care of the decorations - there wasn't anything else to do but wait until tomorrow evening. Or at least he had thought so until John came trudging up the stairs, a large bowl in his hands, looking rather perplexed. In the bowl were several ingredients and utensils.  
"Mrs Hudson wants us to make biscuits for her," John said slowly, staring at the bowl as if it were going to bite him. Sure, he could cook well enough, but baking was a whole other story. He was _horrid _at baking.  
In contrast, Sherlock's eyes twinkled. "Oh?" he asked casually enough.  
"Yeah..."  
"Well," Sherlock said, hopping up. "Let's get started."  
John just stared at him like a reluctant puppy.

"Okay," Sherlock said, slamming the bowl onto the counter (that had only just recently been forcefully cleared by a swipe of Sherlock's arm), reading from Mrs Hudson's handwritten recipe. Awesome. "Sugar, shortening, eggs, vanilla essence, milk, flour, baking powder, and a bit of salt." John watched as he took inventory of everything that had been in the bowl. Everything was there, even the measuring cups.  
"Great," John said sarcastically, and Sherlock raised a brow.  
"Now who's the Scrooge?" Sherlock teased, rolling up his sleeves.  
John sighed as they got started.

"No no, not baking _soda_!" Sherlock shouted, snatching the box away. "What do you want, cupcakes instead of biscuits?"  
That was the exact reason John had never helped his mother around the holidays.

"Set the oven to 190, would you?"  
John did. He watched idly while Sherlock mixed everything together, leaning against the counter on his elbows.

"We have cookie cutters, right?"  
John rummaged around and found some, handed them over. Both of them had a great time cutting out little trees and snowmen and stars. At least John could help with something.

After Sherlock had slid the baking sheet into the oven and set the timer, John noticed with amusement that his friend had some batter smeared across his right cheekbone. With a laugh he swiped it away with his thumb, then proceeded to wipe his hand on his jeans. Suddenly, Sherlock sneezed, and flour flew up in a puff around him.  
John giggled, and it didn't take much to start a war.

By the time they were done, flour covered a good majority of the kitchen. Sherlock and John had their chests pressed together, laughing hysterically. John's left hand was clenched around a good handful of flour, and Sherlock's right hand was holding tightly to his wrist. Sherlock's left hand and John's right were in a similar state.  
"Oh shit," John whisper-laughed, noticing with awe the little dusting of flour that Sherlock had on his eyelashes.  
Sherlock only grinned.  
Their faces were so close, and they realised this. Never really had before, but this time both men were aware of their proximity to the other, could feel their hearts beating against each other. Well, sort of (again, John is _short_). Some sort of enchantment was taking place at that very moment-

The timer went off unexpectedly then, and the spell was broken. The two released each other, and Sherlock peeked at the biscuits. Seemingly satisfied, he pulled them out, allowed them to cool. John longed for the moment to reassert itself, but it wasn't the same. The room suddenly seemed cold, and he shivered because of it.

"Two drops. _Two_ drops. _**Two drops**_," Sherlock said, watching as John added food colouring to the icing they were making for the biscuits.  
"I **heard you**," John growled back.  
Sherlock backed up a bit, checking on the next batch of biscuits that was currently baking.

"So how did the great Sherlock Holmes, whom I've never, ever, seen in a kitchen, get so good at baking of all things?" John asked a while later.  
Sherlock was spreading green icing on one of the trees. "Well," he started, finishing the green, and going for the brown for the trunk, "when I was little, Mummy would do all of the cooking during the holidays. I hated to associate with a crowd of people I only saw twice a year, and opted to hang around in the kitchen with her. I learned a few things while I was there."  
John nodded slowly, a vision of a small Sherlock making him smile. "What about Mycroft?"  
"Oh, he's a superb cook," Sherlock said. "_He _learned from _mamie_, and there's no one on this earth who cooks as well as she did. Mycroft comes close, though."  
"I think that's the first nice thing I've heard you say about Mycroft," John marveled, and Sherlock instantly scowled.  
"Don't tell him I said that, he'll never let me live it down."  
"Your secret is safe with me."

* * *

_themoreyouknow_

_mamie: French word for 'grandma'_


	23. Day Twenty-three

_RtGR!:_  
_**Guest (SavedBySwift)** - (Chapter 22) Thank you kindly - I love all my Frenchies on here, they set me and all of my mistakes straight. (I studied Spanish. My extent of the French language goes as far as being polite.) I fixed that particular snag. Continue to tell me if anything else pops up, it's highly appreciated._

* * *

25 Days of Christmas

**Chapter 23**

_23 December, 2013_

"These types of things are the bane of my existence," Sherlock grumbled from the other side of the couch. A car door slammed on the street below, but after a few moments of silence, Sherlock relaxed. Slightly.  
John simply watched him from his side, head resting on his hand, elbow propped up on the armrest. His other hand rested comfortably on Sherlock's ankle (Sherlock had his feet propped up on John's thighs). "I think you'll survive - you did fine last year."  
"Yes, but as soon as this is over you'll be leaving," he murmured under his breath, looking away.  
John was slightly taken aback by the tone of Sherlock's voice. Across the sofa, Sherlock seemed to be biting his tongue. John nearly brought up an argument, but there was no sense in beating a dead horse. Everything that could have been said had already been said; but that didn't prevent him from feeling a little guilty about leaving. The whole time the party was going on, Sherlock would be waiting for its end - and hoping that somehow it would still go on, if only to keep John from leaving.  
A voice from below brought both men from their reveries.

"Boys! A little help!"  
John and Sherlock quickly obliged, if only to occupy their minds (and hearts) for the moment.  
On the stairs they met Greg and Molly.

"Hey," John greeted with a smile. "Mrs Hudson needs us, but you two can go on up," he told them as they passed.  
"Alright," Greg said, then leaned a bit to his right. "Hello, Sherlock!" he called, expecting no reply.  
"Hullo!"  
Greg made a small face of surprise before he pointed upstairs with his chin. "Wanna head up?"  
Molly shrugged, said "Sure," and up they went.

"How long do you think they'll be?" Molly asked once they had shrugged off their coats and set down what had been in their hands. Greg was currently rifling through a bag.  
"No idea - all the more reason we need to hurry up," he said.  
Molly frowned at him. "What are we hurrying to do exactly?"  
"Aha," Greg stage-whispered in triumph. "We're hanging up some of this," he grinned mischievously, holding up some mistletoe.  
Molly understood the festive part of it all, but she could sense another motive hidden behind the twinkle in Greg's eyes. "Why?"  
"Okay, you've seen those two idiots down there, yeah? Well you'd have to be blind to not see that they aren't exactly friends."  
"What are you getting at?" she asked, though she very well got the idea.  
"They're the only ones who can't see that they might as well be married. Hell, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, and I all saw it from day one."  
Molly considered that. "You do have a point."  
"I know. Now hurry up and help me."

The first they hung between the kitchen and the sitting room.  
"You don't mind that we're trying to hook up John and Sherlock, do you?" Lestrade asked, putting a subtle emphasis on 'Sherlock'.  
Molly regarded Lestrade steadily, almost looking him over, then made a small face of approval. "I think I'm over him."  
Greg blinked once, but didn't question it. He tried not to stare too long at her clingy red dress.

By the time John and Sherlock made it back upstairs, followed closely by Mrs Hudson, Greg and Molly were sitting innocently on the sofa, waiting patiently.  
"Sherlock, why don't you play something for everyone while John and I finish setting up?" Mrs Hudson asked him.  
Sherlock tried not to let her see him roll his eyes, but obliged. "What am I to play?"  
"Oh, just something dear - but something Christmas-related! None of your Russian composers tonight!"  
"What of Tchaikovsky?" he asked cheekily.  
"Only if it's from the _Nutcracker_."  
Sherlock was satisfied with that, and proceeded to pick up his violin. Molly stood to see if John and Mrs Hudson needed any help, while Greg just sat there, listening to Sherlock play. It had been a long day of paperwork and apprehending criminals.  
"So..." Greg started, watching Sherlock play while the Holmes walked between the window and the middle of the room.  
"So..." Sherlock said after a bit.  
"I actually have no idea."  
"Then shut up."

* * *

They had all just sat down to eat when John looked up to see Mycroft quickly peep around the doorframe, consider the situation, and hurriedly walk away.  
"Mycroft Holmes, if you don't come in here I swear..."  
"Mycroft _Alain_ Holmes," Sherlock said around his glass, smiling evilly.  
"Mycroft _Alain _Holmes," John repeated after Mycroft still hadn't shown himself.  
It took only a moment's pause before the elder Holmes revealed himself. He looked rather annoyed. "I was only stopping by for a moment, but I see you're busy," he said, trying to excuse himself - he was as good at parties as Sherlock was.  
"Sit down," John insisted.  
"I don't want to intrude," Mycroft protested politely, backing up.  
"Oh, there's plenty of room," Greg said, butting in. He smiled warmly, and Mycroft seemed to consider the option lightly.  
"Come on, have a seat," Mrs Hudson implored.  
Molly just watched him, not entirely sure of who he was. The two had never met, though she had inferred that he was Sherlock's brother - and not just from the shared surname. The two Holmeses were so alike, it was almost scary.  
Finally, with a weary sigh, Mycroft complied. John dug out yet another chair, and made sure that he had a seat as far away from Sherlock as possible.

Dinner itself was pleasant. Sure, Sherlock threw most of his food across the table at his brother (earning him a stern look from Mrs Hudson, after which he immediately stopped), but otherwise it went on without a hitch. Mycroft himself even had a small part in their conversations, though it was mainly John and Greg who did the talking. Occasionally Sherlock would butt in, and Molly had a comment here and there as well. Mrs Hudson just sat and listened for the most part, smiling and enjoying everyone having a good time.

"So Mycroft, I've had to play for everyone, I think it's your turn," Sherlock said pointedly after everyone had finished eating.  
All eyes were suddenly on the ginger at the end of the table, and Mycroft would have been glaring, if he hadn't been so surprised. "No, I don't think it is," he said forcefully, eyes sharp.  
"I think it's time, don't you? These little sessions here have been fun, but wouldn't you like to branch out a bit?" John looked between the two Holmeses, surprised, but connecting the dots in his head.  
"I wouldn't, actually." John's attention was suddenly directed back at Mycroft.  
Greg and John exchanged looks.  
"Oh you play?" Molly asked curiously from her spot, tactically stopping the impending row.  
Mycroft looked up, surprised at her rather blatant intrusion. "Cello..." he said slowly. He rather liked this Molly Hooper. She was quiet. And smart. He liked that in a person.  
"Well do you have it here? I'm sure you're rather good."  
Mycroft said nothing for a minute. "I haven't played in a long while - haven't the time."  
Sherlock murmured to himself from across the table, but Mycroft caught it. "Hasn't played since dad died."  
"Fine," Mycroft huffed pointedly, and everyone looked up at him in surprise. Sherlock grinned, an actual smile this time, not one out of contempt for his brother. Mycroft took a moment to burn the image into his memory.  
"I'll go get it," the younger Holmes said, pushing himself back from the table, trying to bring a certain level of snark back into his voice. He hadn't succeded very well.  
Mycroft nodded, then called after him, "Will you play with me?"  
"Of course - I'm not letting you get _all _of the attention."  
John, Greg, Molly, and Mrs Hudson all exchanged glances. Whatever this was going to be, it was going to be interesting.  
Outside, rain pattered against the window panes.

* * *

Mycroft took his time setting up - turning the pegs, studying his bow, plucking delicately at the strings. He sat in Sherlock's chair, much to his brother's (mild) contempt, while the others were scattered about the room, mostly on the sofa, some in chairs. Sherlock paced around John's chair impatiently, waiting.  
"You do remember those Christmas compositions I wrote, don't you?" Mycroft finally asked Sherlock, holding his bow to the strings.  
Sherlock scoffed. "The ones you did when I was five? Of course I do."  
"Good."  
John and the rest waited in anticipation, watching as the Holmeses began to play, almost as one.

_They're good together,_ John thought, studying the two from his spot on the sofa. _Shame they don't get along better._  
And he was right - the two played a beautiful duet, their contrasting styles complimenting each other nicely. While Sherlock was reckless and seemingly made it up as he went, Mycroft was controlled, yet flowing, natural. The elder Holmes was highly absorbed in it all, and once or twice John thought he saw a smile twitch at the very corners of Mycroft's lips.

No one knew what time it was when they finished, but when they did, the flat was eerily silent. Slowly, Mycroft started to put his cello away. Sherlock flopped into John's chair in front of his brother, content, lazily watching him from his curled up position, violin nestled to his chest.  
Suddenly Molly clapped, and it wasn't long before the others followed. Mycroft's head snapped up, startled.  
"Please," he tried to say, then gave up. "Thank you," he finally consented, then stood to leave. "Now if you'll excuse me, it's a trifle later than I would have liked. I'm afraid I'm missed some important appointments."  
Everyone apologised, but said that it was fantastic, that he should play more often. Mycroft smiled politely, offered a farewell to all, and nodded a goodbye to his brother, which Sherlock waved off, eyes half-lidded. John followed him out.

"That was brilliant," John told him, holding the door open, watching as Mycroft walked past and onto the street. A black car prompty pulled up to meet him at the curb.  
"Thank you."  
"Do you want your cello?" John asked as Mycroft started to climb into the back seat. The elder Holmes paused.  
"You can leave it here for the time being," he said with a curt nod. And then he was gone.  
John rubbed the back of his neck and went back inside.

* * *

The rest of the evening Sherlock was quiet. Thankfully, he was polite. But quiet. He watched idly as presents were exchanged, forced a smile when he was thanked, said 'thank you' himself when he opened his own gifts, and seemed to listen to conversations with mild interest. John watched him carefully until everyone was safely out of the flat. (In all of the excitement, Molly and Greg had forgotten about the mistletoe.)

At 11:22, the two of them were alone in the sitting room.  
Sherlock was still in John's chair.

"I'll be off then," John called from the door, setting down his bags. I'll be back New Year's night, I suppose, maybe earlier if Harry'll let me."  
Sherlock said nothing, only stared at the window blankly. John sighed.  
"C'mere," he prompted. "Hurry up, I'll miss my train," he added after Sherlock made no move to obey. Finally, Sherlock pushed himself to his feet and walked over. He opened his mouth to say something, face looking somewhat like his usual self, when John curtly told him to shut up. Sherlock was slightly taken aback, and even more so when John pulled him into a warm hug.

_John gives the best hugs,_ he suddenly decided, despite the fact that he hadn't much hugged anybody. The thought surprised him, but only mildly. He was used to this kind of thing by now, at least when it pertained to his blogger. He allowed himself to slowly return the embrace, melting into it.

When John finally released him, Sherlock felt a little better. Until John pointed to the door.  
"I better get going," he said, eyes apologetic.  
"Yeah," was all that Sherlock said. He watched as John went, standing in the same spot for a good while.

_Don't stand in that one spot all day. You'll put an indent in Mrs Hudson's floor._  
_JW_

Sherlock smiled tightly, but kept on standing.


	24. Day Twenty-four

25 Days of Christmas

**Chapter 24**

_24 December, 2013_

Christmas Eve wasn't a happy day for Sherlock. Not only had John left last night for Harry's, but Mrs Hudson had taken off at some time in the early morning for her own sister's to celebrate Christmas.  
For the first time in a long time, Sherlock was left completely alone in the flat. There were no people, no cases, no nothing. He was at a loss, had no idea what to do with himself. So he sat in his chair, staring at nothing. The tree sat in the corner of the room, brightly lit, mocking him. Underneath it was bare, though not because there were no presents. John and Sherlock had a standing agreement. They could get anything they wanted for the other, as long as it didn't bankrupt them, and as long as it all could fit in a stocking.  
His gaze trailed lazily to the mantle then, taking in the stockings that were hung there. Presents were still nestled in them, making them bulge - he had told John last night that he could wait to open his, but urged John to open his own presents, since he would be gone. John refused, saying that if Sherlock could wait, he could too.  
So there they sat, untouched. Sherlock made a face, resumed staring off into empty space.

* * *

He had grown so accustomed to the lonely silence of the flat, that it surprised him when he heard someone on the stairs. Sherlock's gaze fixated on the door somewhat hopefully, but those weren't John's footsteps, though they were just as familiar.  
"It's just you," he said irritably, sagging back into his chair.  
Mycroft raised a brow. "Yes, 'just me'. Sorry to disappoint."  
"You always disappoint."  
Mycroft ignored the statement, gesturing towards John's chair. "May I?"  
Sherlock glared back and forth between his brother and the chair. Finally he stood, turned, and fell into John's chair with a huff. Mycroft watched, head tilted.

"Well sit," Sherlock suddenly commanded, nodding his head towards his now vacant chair.  
Mycroft sat.  
The two sat in somewhat amiable silence for a long while. Sherlock stared at random points on the carpet, brooding, while Mycroft watched his brother carefully, studying him.

It was well into the evening when Mycroft spoke up again.

"Well, this _has_ been fun, but I should be off."  
Sherlock looked up, surprised. He had nearly forgotten his brother was there. Sherlock had felt Mycroft's presence, became used to it, enough to not have to acknowledge it to know his brother was there. "Well go on then. I'm not keeping you."  
"I will. But first I have something for you."  
Sherlock tilted his head, frowning as he watched Mycroft draw something from an inside pocket of his coat. It was a small, meticulously wrapped package. Mycroft passed it to his younger brother, who took it delicately.  
"What is this?" Sherlock asked, shaking it slightly. It felt soft, and didn't rattle.  
Mycroft was silent, a smile playing on the corners of his lips.  
Sherlock scoffed, but carefully tore open the wrapping paper. His eyes widened slightly when he pulled out his scarf. The same one he had lost several days ago. He looked up at the spot where his brother had been, only to see that Mycroft had suddenly disappeared.

Something in his chest dropped to the pit of his stomach. The flat seemed so much emptier now, so much lonelier. He found that he missed his brother's presence, if only because Mycroft was somebody to share in his solitude.  
Sherlock fondled the scarf in his hands, remembering when Mycroft had given it to him all those years ago.

* * *

_25 December, 2013_

Sherlock blinks as the clock chimes, signalling the few seconds before midnight. He had relatively gotten over his loneliness over the hours, and now he's bored - so bored that he doesn't want to do anything at all. Not even his violin sitting across the room can entice him to get out of his chair. A mug of cold tea sits on the floor next to him.  
He's lounging, feet in John's vacant chair, feeling something empty play in his chest. If John were here, he would be tickling Sherlock's feet playfully, gazing at him with warm eyes. Sherlock swallows, pushes the feeling away, and pulls out his mobile.

_Merry Christmas_  
_SH_

He really doesn't expect reply, but he can't hide his delight when he receives something back.

_**Merry Christmas Sherlock**_  
_**JW**_

Sherlock smiles.

_Shouldn't you be asleep?_  
_SH_

_**Shouldn't you?**_  
_**JW**_

Sherlock can practically see John's face contorting into a wide yawn. He should really let him get back to bed. Sherlock is well aware of the fact that John was probably fast asleep only minutes before. He entertains the thought of saying good night for a moment.

_Not really, no._  
_SH_

he sends instead. He thinks for a minute, then sends a second text.

_It's rather quiet here._  
_SH_

_**I know.**_  
_**JW**_

Sherlock knows that John understood that last text, replacing the word "quiet" with "lonely". Sherlock doesn't even have to send an "I miss you" for John to understand that he does. Sherlock sits there for a moment, just thinking. It's time to let John be. He'll most likely have a long day tomorrow (in a few hours?) with his sister.

_Goodnight John._  
_SH_

_**Night Sher**_  
_**JW**_

Sherlock stared at that last text for a long while, picking apart the meaning behind 'Sher'. Was it a term of endearment, or was John simply shortening his name because he was tired?  
Somehow, Sherlock's eyes scrambled it around to mean something else. He bit his lip, re-evaluating his position on love and friendship.

* * *

_RN: Hello there everyone! In the name of Christmas spirit, I'm holding a little giveaway. All you have to do is guess one present of Sherlock's, and one of John's (so go back and look through the chapters). Message me with your answers before I post tomorrow (guests, I suppose you can just leave a review if you want), and I'll write you a fic of your choice! Merry Christmas, and all that._


	25. Day Twenty-five

_A/N: Starts out like shite, but gets better as it goes, I think. Sorry for the delay, but when your family is as large as mine is - well, Christmas is more than a one day affair. As an apology, I'll be posting two bonus chapters: a New Year's fic, and another surprise one. Look forward to that coming at some point._

_Oh! And those who guessed gifts are:_  
_My good friend, __**Cherry(FlavouredPoison)**_  
_**randomperson5972**_  
**carol mudd**  
and **the fangirl 2013**

Congrats and let me know what type of fic you want! If I don't hear from you, though, I'll message you about it (except for carol, my guest). Merry belated Christmas, and an early Happy New Year!

* * *

25 Days of Christmas

**Chapter 25**

_25 December, 2013_

Sherlock didn't sleep well that night. He considered not sleeping at all - which he did often - but he felt bone tired. The last thing he remembered was the slap of rain against the windows and the pavement outside.

When he woke up, it was early. For a second, he forgot where he was, since the last place he remembered being was in John's chair. Now he was swimming in blankets, wrapped up in his bed. He thought he heard a noise from somewhere in the building, but quickly dismissed it as a figment of his imagination. He would most likely be alone for at least another week. With a heavy sigh, he clambered out of bed. There was no sense in moping in his bed all day.  
Or was there?

No... he decided there wasn't. Sherlock was becoming increasingly irritated with himself, and was even more so when he recalled the events of last night. It was almost as if he were pining over John and that was _most definitely not the case._ With a weary sigh, he put the kettle on. While he waited, he walked out into the sitting room, not paying attention to his surroundings. So when a very dishevelled-looking, luggage-laden John came walking through the door, Sherlock had to do more than a double take for his brain to register the fact that his doctor was even there.

"John?" he asked stupidly, standing very still. A very Mycroft-like frown overtook his features.  
"Hey Sherlock," John replied tiredly, dropping his bags. Sherlock blinked, once, twice, rubbed his eyes. Before John even had the chance to take off his coat, Sherlock was in front of him, poking at him, feeling his face and arms with his hands, as if John was some sort of hallucination. But he wasn't. He was really there. Suddenly Sherlock grabbed onto John's upper arms.  
"I thought you wouldn't be back until after New Year's," Sherlock said incredulously, eyes wide. He didn't notice how tight his grip on his friend was - as if John would suddenly disappear if Sherlock dared to let him go.  
John made a face, shrugged, not at all put off by the circulation being cut off in his arms. "I decided to come back."  
"Why?" Sherlock asked in a very Sherlock-like manner, tilting his head. His grip loosened slightly.  
"Well because," John said with a cheeky smirk, "I missed you." He punctuated his sentence by tapping Sherlock's nose lightly with his finger.  
Sherlock suddenly let him go. The kettle was screaming at him, and he turned to attend to it. Somehow, John doubted that was the real reason Sherlock walked away. The ride had been long, and John had had a lot of time to think things over.

* * *

After Sherlock was settled in his chair with a cuppa, John asked if he would like to do presents. Sherlock shrugged, said they might as well, and watched as John gingerly tossed him his stocking. They didn't even ask who was going first - they simply dug in.

"Oh Sherlock," John said, realising how much was in his. "Why?" was all he was able to ask.  
"We agreed that as long as everything fit..." Sherlock said cheekily, pulling a box of candy canes from his stocking. He raised a brow at John, but couldn't hide a small spark of pleasure in his eyes.  
John momentarily regretted having told Sherlock that (he was always meticulous about that sort of thing - if Sherlock wanted something to fit, _it was going to fit_), but immediately forgot it. "I noticed candy canes going missing from the tree," John explained with a smile, and Sherlock looked rather impressed.  
"Was it necessary to fill the bottom of my stocking with them, though?" Sherlock asked, pulling out a handful.  
"Oh absolutely."

Three hideous jumpers later, John found a jar of Super Strawberries and Cream sweets and grinned. At the same moment, Sherlock pulled out a rather nicely crocheted scarf.

"Where did you get this?" the detective asked suspiciously.  
"I saw you looking at that scarf in Harrods. Sent a picture to my mum, and she made a pattern. She said to tell you 'Merry Christmas'."  
"Nice woman."

They were at the very bottoms now. John had found another jumper (this one not so hideous), and underneath it, a curiously wrapped package. It felt like yet _another _jumper (not that he was complaining, he loved jumpers), but the others weren't wrapped. _So what-_

John suddenly burst into laughter as he opened the thing. Sherlock was watching him keenly.

"What is_ this_?" John asked, still laughing, and held it up. He had been right, it was a jumper, but this one was just... Great. It was a dull cream, with an argyle pattern... and black persian cats with wide, bright blue staring eyes.  
Sherlock grinned into his tea. "I couldn't resist," he remarked after a sip.  
John took another moment to admire the thing, then looked back at his friend. "You do realise that I _will _wear this, right?"  
Sherlock hadn't seen that coming, but took it all in stride, only slightly choking on his tea. After he recovered, the detective pulled out his own curiously wrapped package, ripping it open to find a mug. It sported all sorts of designs, but the one that caught Sherlock's eye was the one that read 'His Lordship' on the inside. He snorted, but didn't seem disgusted. John smiled.

"Good Christmas," Sherlock remarked afterwards. "You've got plenty of hideous jumpers and sweets, while I have a new scarf from Mrs Watson herself, candy canes, and a mug that cements my status in this flat."  
John ignored that last part. He was too nervous and giddy. "Not quite," he said, then added at Sherlock's confused look, "I've one more thing for you."  
"It wasn't in the stocking," Sherlock deadpanned, as if that made the gift null and void.  
"No, but I didn't want you finding it somewhere and getting curious," John called over his shoulder from his suitcase, digging something out of the depths. "Technically, it's not from me anyways. Your brother paid for it," John mentioned, handing a small, rectangular package to his friend.  
"It's the thought..." Sherlock said slowly, observing the thing carefully. He proceeded to lightly shake the box. John hoped that luck was on his side - Sherlock had a knack for guessing boxed gifts, but maybe since the detective hadn't held this particular one in his hands before...

There was no rattle, John had made sure of that, and Sherlock seemed genuinely confused. His magic trick didn't seem to be working. John let out a sigh of relief.  
"Well open it, it won't bite."  
That was all the prompting Sherlock needed.

John watched carefully as Sherlock stared at the unwrapped gift in his lap. Gingerly, he opened the lid to the ornate box, and pulled out a beautifully decorated black fountain pen. Sherlock held it with his fingertips, as if merely touching it would dispel the illusion, but lack of contact would sever the connection. After discerning that this thing was actually real and in his hands, Sherlock looked to John with wide eyes.  
"I..." he tried to start, blinked, looked back at the pen. Opened his mouth again to speak, snapped it shut. "_John..._"  
That was all John needed to hear. "You're welcome," he said, kissing his friend on the head without much thought. It wouldn't have made much of a difference anyways. "Want another cuppa? I could use some coffee myself-" he murmured to himself until he was cut off, mid-step between the kitchen and the sitting room.

John hadn't even registered that Sherlock had left his chair until a warm hand enclosed around his wrist. John looked up into those cosmic caesious eyes and felt his heart skip a beat. Their eyes met for a long moment before John swallowed and happened to glance up. Sherlock followed his lead. Above them, hung a sprig of mistletoe, courtesy of Molly and Greg. They stared at it for a while together, before Sherlock spoke up.

"I propose an experiment," Sherlock said slowly, still gripping John's wrist.  
John shrugged. "'Tis the season."

* * *

_Q: DID THEY FINALLY KISS FOR THE REAL?_


	26. Happy New Year's

_A: Let's find out, shall we?_

* * *

25 Days of Christmas

**Chapter 16**

_25 December, 2013_

Sherlock had almost smiled at that, but the air was too thick, sparking with electricity. John could feel his skin prickle, and as Sherlock leaned a bit closer, John could see goosebumps forming on his friend's pale skin. Anticipation hung in the air, heavy and tangible. Subconsciously, John rose on his tiptoes slightly, craning his neck upwards. Why the hell did Sherlock have to be so tall? They were so close, _so close_, only a little further now. If Sherlock wasn't so tall - and if they both weren't so apprehensive - they could be _snogging _right now.  
John could feel Sherlock's fringe tickle his forehead, and he nearly stopped breathing. When the tips of their noses brushed, Sherlock's breathing hitched slightly. The consulting detective would spend the next week psycho-analysing that. Right now, he was focused. Afraid, but focused.  
Out of nowhere, a phone rang. The two men jumped.

"Oh shit," John huffed, head falling forward in defeat. Sherlock pressed their foreheads together, brow furrowing as he tried to search John's eyes. It was a little difficult, seeing as John's eyes had closed.  
After a few seconds the voicemail kicked in, but the moment was past ruined. Neither made a move to proceed, nor did they make a move to part. At least not until John's mobile rang again.

Sherlock chuckled. "Might want to get that."  
John groaned, but obliged, rifling through his pocket until he found the accursed device. He nearly answered it rather rudely - until he saw it was his sister.

"Shit," he murmured, then quickly changed his tone. "Hey sis!"  
Sherlock watched as John took the conversation across the room. He could hear Harry yelling from where he was, though after John practically shouted the words, "I felt bad leaving Sherlock here alone!" she seemed to understand the hidden meaning there and quieted down.  
Sherlock smiled, ran his fingers through the curls on the back of his head, and meandered into the kitchen.

...

The rest of the week passed without further incident. Sherlock was bored, John chastised him for shooting walls, and everything seemed back to normal. Somewhat.  
John and Sherlock seemed to be partaking in some sort of dance with each other. When one would figuratively take a step forward, the other would take an equal, but still figurative, step back. John didn't pet Sherlock's hair anymore - whenever his fingers even twitched in Sherlock's direction, the detective would subconsciously flinch away, even though Sherlock knew that he loved John's fingers carding through his curls. Sherlock didn't lie on John. The doctor would actually sit in the middle of the couch to prevent this, and if Sherlock made a move to sit beside him, John would slide to the opposite side. They would take pains to avoid touching, whether it was walking past in the hall, or sitting in a cab. They were still on good terms, of course, but... It was almost as if they were afraid of breaking each other.  
They both looked sad when they thought the other wasn't looking.

On New Year's Eve, things were quiet. John was at the table with a glass of something strong, while Sherlock was curled up in his chair. He had been texting someone for the majority of the afternoon, but John hadn't the faintest idea who it was. Out of nowhere, Sherlock's head jerked towards the doorway, and seconds later, John heard footsteps on the stairs. Two sets, one heavier than the other, and one of them skipped over the creaky stair. Greg and someone else then... though that gait was slightly familiar...

"Anderson," Sherlock murmured to John an instant before two familiar faces appeared in the doorway. John nodded in a way that said "ah".  
"Knock knock," Greg greeted with a grin. Anderson stood next to him, hands in his pockets.  
"Hello John."  
"Hello Phillip."  
Sherlock looked up from the floor momentarily, staring straight ahead. He blinked several times, frown growing across his features. In all honesty, he looked consitpated. Anderson noticed, and John could tell that he was holding back a smile.  
"That's my name," Anderson said helpfully, raising his brows. The snark was tangible.  
Sherlock's frown deepened as he turned to face John in his chair. "How do you know Anderson's name?"  
"Because I pay attention," John answered. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something.  
Greg piped up then. "Alright ladies, we aren't here for a row."  
"Then what are you here for?" Sherlock almost-snapped.  
"We're here to ask John if he wants to go out for a little New Year's drink," the detective inspector said with a smile. Anderson nodded affirmatively.  
"Oh. Uh, Greg, I was actually planning on a quiet evening at home..." John said slowly. In all reality, a break from Baker Street would have been lovely. But due to past occurences, John didn't have much reason to really like Anderson all that much. (John did like him more than Sally, however.)  
"Oh go on, John. I'm sure you're getting sick of me," Sherlock murmured distractedly, eyes on his phone again. Coincidently, Greg's mobile went off, and he covertly glanced at it from his pocket.  
"Why don't you go on ahead, Anderson. I'll see if I can't convince John to come along."  
"Don't be too long."

After Anderson had left, John stared after him, frowning. Sherlock nearly read his mind.  
"So, Anderson having problems with the wife?" Sherlock asked for John with a sneer.  
"Only about as much as the rest of us," Greg said with a shrug, and John and Sherlock were both reminded of Greg's own marital problems. Only John took the effort to feel sympathetic.  
"Want a drink?" John asked, gesturing towards the kitchen. "You'll be here for a while."  
Lestrade grinned. "That's no trouble."  
Sherlock scoffed from his chair, but was thoroughly ignored.

The remainder of the evening was spent amiably. John and Lestrade chatted on the sofa while Sherlock brooded in his chair, watching the New Year's broadcast with a frown. At about eleven, he suddenly stood, walked over to the other two men, and plopped down between them. John flinched away (but only slightly), while Greg just sat there.

"Getting a little lonely over there, huh?" he asked, hiding a smile.  
Sherlock acted as if nothing had happened, simply scooted a millimetre closer to John and crossed his arms, eyes back on the telly. John was equally silent.

Half eleven now. Both John and Greg noticed that the closer it got to midnight, the more restless Sherlock became. He seemed to be running something through his mind - but what? John wracked his brain for something, but nothing seemed right. Greg just sat there, looking at the two of them with that smile Mrs Hudson got sometimes. The one that made John frown and Sherlock roll his eyes.  
Suddenly, Sherlock went stiff as a board, back rimrod straight, eyes glued to the television screen. The countdown had started - and the camera was flicking between hundreds of couples, all anticipating their first kiss of the new year. John found Sherlock's anticipation contagious, though he had no idea what could be causing it. Well, to be honest he did, it just refused to cross his thick mind.

_"5, 4, 3, 2, 1-"_  
Sherlock looked to John then for a brief moment, glancing over his face, drinking it all in. Then, like a scared fawn, he shied away, turned to meet Greg's eyes.  
"C'mon, would you just kiss him already?" he asked incredulously.

And Sherlock did.

And it was perfect.

* * *

_And that's it! Only one more chapter, though the next one really has nothing to do with anything. Sorry this one is so late - I really have no excuse. Ending could have been better as well (along with the whole bloody thing), but whatever. Maybe I'll come back to it._


End file.
